Saturday, November 8, 2008


11 8 2008

It's sickness like a rock, sinking painted black
it turns like molten lava
it thickens as it turns
expanding into more sickness...
and they wonder what it's about
and they don't understand what that feels like
shove it all down
swallow it with something sweet
the cold ale of darkened crimson
the kind one would find beneath bare feet in the forest
where something bled
and something died.

It's sickness that burns
and the lining of my instinct
and the edges of my intuition saturate themselves in it
and I can 't get rid of it
it blurs the lines of what is and what was and what comes
it's perception with a cracked lens
it's depth where there is no bottom.
Because of it
the walls are closer than I had thought
doors are further than my hand reaches
windows are higher up above my eyes
and I can't get out into the world
because my eyes won't reach the wooden pane of the glass.
Without it, I might be free.

Self Portrait

Self Portrait
This is Not a Drawing