These are pieces taken from a mind of someone falling in his own mind.
There are two significant bodies. As the victim, one was tied onto a wooden royal chair while blindfolded; another with scalpel at hand inflicting cuts, sculpting flesh as beats of Pornopop’s ‘Little Kafka’ played in the background.
Chiaroscuro. Lightbulb in pendulum motion. From a distance, there’s a bystander who can see both of them in fluorescent smiles — curious about the lack of cries despite the absence of a gag.
Perhaps this is why poems require too much words.
Here and there: a painting in progress, an artist, an unidentifiable face on canvas. You always remind me to forget you so let me be your masterpiece instead. And as the beauty of impermanence does its work, his world fades away.
wounds we frequently justify to stay with the person holding the blade.