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  

Written by Northern_Soul (-Missy-)
Author's Note
For the skeletons in the closet comp
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