I scrub my oil reservoir clean
just to oil-paint it


with
cogwheels
Black index fingers… ' Please start moving! '


***

At midnight I penknife a set of fingerprints

on my piano keys

And a string

on the post office’s window,

where a tunneled sunrise has smeared a violin.



***

Exhumation – another nude silhouette
charcoaled on the horizon,

Redrawing her f a d i n g freckles with a permanent marker

against the tarmac-road winds.



***

Morning – outlining my eyes with ba ck st it ch;


The same safe-pin that

At night embossed cilia around my navel.


***

Tracing mud freckles on my bus’s glass cheeks

daubed,

s
tr
E
ami
ng auto-portraits.


***

In the middle of every movie another fleck of oil pastels
f
e
ll

on my pillow.


For yet another pore on my mom’s aging skin.


***

Winter… scribbled HElp on the inside of my left mitten.



***

Summer… competed depths no demon knows

chalking
h i g h w a y s
and
g r a v e l b a c k s t r e e t s

… for a jagged ruler.

***

Painting a home on cyan-planet canvass exhausted my chocolate muse…



…to death.


***

My Noah’s Ark will be

a juice carton and I’ll felt-tip
Pears and pineapples

on my new home’s wallpapers.


***



Seal me.
I long to have the layer of acrylics g r o w inwards


And swallow my folded,
tattooed,
naked body.


***

I’m by no means as talented as to be allowed to paint my blue bathroom tiles on your pages.

A cubist shouldn’t have tried to twist your colorful world.

An impressionist shouldn’t have forced
stripes and dots


on your one-day gray blanket.

I’m terribly, terribly sorry.

I know I don’t deserve your support.


But please,




please,






please,









Don’t let life draw on me again!





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