Today you left a sketch all breathily
unfinished on your desk, and then came
back to find two wretched yellow pests
had interloped to fetch the creature you
had sketched diaphanously tall and regal
.
in the center of the paper, smushed it all
around, pulling it like taffy, spinning it like
pizza dough, misshapen and unbound:
wide enough to take the largest measure
of thick ghastly random pigments dripped
.
all over it like body fluids from you’d-rather-
not-know-what-or-whom, thickening into
black outlines sometimes – stain-glass-
windowing itself into ungraceful stasis –
awkwardly imprisoning now three main
.
featured creatures: unwitting prospects
rigidly awaiting sacrifice. “That wasn’t very
nice,” you said, but they were dead to you:
they’d long been taken to another artist’s
bed, retreated or advanced in yet another
.
artist’s trance without a thought. What has
who wrought? Can art do art? How does it
start? Reflex was to worry. But the worry
wasn’t strong. As long as something’s
making something, nothing’s wrong.
.
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