deepundergroundpoetry.com

Still Life

 
If we broke it down  
into palatable pieces
I’d of said something
about Jackson Pollock
and the colour of blood
 
how I’d never seen red
roll down glass outside  
of movies.  
 
Perhaps there’d be
the part where your spit
hit a cheek. How it burned
with the fury of lava—
this skin, a village  
waiting for destruction
 
all terror,
    all terror in the flood.  
 
Some days, I float above fists
thinking of them as canvasses
on crooked easels. Blots
on fingers, feet & face.
 
I’d call it art
if it wasn’t a bastardised
version of events, but there  
are hours, some hours
where pain blurs seamlessly
with watercolour shades
 
skeletons itching in wet earth
where they silently decompose
 
some nights,  
those corpses
are so moist,
so bare,
I dress them  
in paint-stained  
clothes.

 
 
 
 
 
 
Written by Northern_Soul
Published
Author's Note
For the skeletons in the closet comp
All writing remains the property of the author. Don't use it for any purpose without their permission.
likes 11 reading list entries 4
comments 12 reads 290
Commenting Preference: 
The author is looking for friendly feedback.

Latest Forum Discussions
SPEAKEASY
Today 9:19pm by SonderNinja
COMPETITIONS
Today 8:11pm by Mstrmnd1923
SPEAKEASY
Today 7:04pm by Wafflenose
SPEAKEASY
Today 5:44pm by SonderNinja
SPEAKEASY
Today 5:25pm by SonderNinja
SPEAKEASY
Today 1:45pm by Ahavati