I’ve seen your work before; fearless, freshly framed
for those colored *******; slowly visible in moist  
and languid ways, splitting sleekest hairs
in scorched sheets, cinematic, grotesque grunts
humming the atmosphere.  This is your love at it’s
latter, punching dusty walls dim, *******, firecrackers
pressed against bellies, new equations filling the exterior
in jittery squirms.  The plot is peeling smokeless holes,
unfiltered, breathless, old solos fading in filth across the
canvas as dark eyes spark slurpy tangent twists,
their keys tight against the lock, slowly pushing the door
open to jagged letters.  You can’t blame me for following
your footsteps. It’s my duty to leave those strike-through
images against the blackboard, single-spaced adjectives
lining the detail, similar to how you fed those *******  
of your time with florescent glitter. We’re very much alike,
you and I, stiff steel of goodness, tight-strapped, monstered,
baptized with crafted portraits, old yet so close to home,
breathing inside our interior.