Pencil, chalk, charcoal and erasers
Walking hand in hand on a canvas
Stretched and condensed observations
Obstructions as concentration pins
A walk and talk in a dark museum
Stored birds, killed preys, stuffed game
Tall giraffe, the lion, lionized Victorian art
Quirky strokes of eccentric dashes mashes
Staring in glasses to capture emotions
Art resident mumble whilst erupting muscles
The ***** strikes to meet  my ****** gaze
Slandered, pasted and matted with prejudice
Mouth flowing with filth like a sewage drain
Don’t we all come from holes, sticks and bones?
Don’t we all come in holes, sticks and bones?
A lost sight of an insight, a skin stratified
Misted and tainted with toned stinky ****
A pigmentation structured in perceptions
A plea to ****** stereotypical resolution
A streamline of vagaries, unsettle the gallery

sometimes I think about how this time last year I drew you from memory every time I closed my eyes
but if you asked me to draw you now I would forget how to pick up a pencil

If I painted a portrait of you
It would look like a silly sensation of shapes
A failed attempt to form eyes and lips into a memorable escape
But really I enlarged your eyes because in them you carry a star filled sky
Every simple feature I sketch I wish could be mine
Theres a masterpiece in every line

all these broken things surround me
our broken relationship
these ripped papers
the pencils that i snapped in half
that ugly drawing i drew

the pictures on the wall mock me,
your eyes penetrate my soul
they capture a much simpler moment, in a much simpler time of our lives.

It's been a long time
but the ink scrawls & lines all fall into place

an expressionist
glimpse into urban dreams

somewhere in the past
a typewriter sounds

someone is writing
a masterpiece

which will never
be published

in a land
soon to be bombs & flame

meanwhile my lines
make out the city of my dreams

Like a child who drew
Rain and Clouds
On a dusty window
On a clear and sunny day.

>>>>>>>>>>i    of a well
                 d     t
                r     u
              a     o
            w    p
          m    u
         y     f
       s     l
        e



the more i draw, the more energy i feel expanding my mind.

m
a                                                       ­                                    o     u
k                                                              ­                        l                d
i                     ­                                                               c ­                     s.
n                                        ­                             into the                        
g                                    ­                 w myself
e                                             dra
v                                      a  n
e                ­                   c
r                                    i
y t h i n g  l i g h t e r



(i really can do anything)

Long and endless nights,
Of blood, sweat, tears, and charcoal.
Melting into smile.

Haven't slept in days,
If I could I'm sure I would,
Cigarettes will do.

Paradox in hand,
I form an open window,
Illusive, by fLaw.

Golden lights are on,
Check. Chronic aches and pains. Check.
Perfectionism...

Check. Coffee is my blood,
A running joke amongst us slaves,
We might die without.

Humor's important
Now, because I'm already
Two-far and long-gone.

Far-along the shores
Of distant kingdoms wreckage.
Lost within again,

Shattered and washed up
Into mountains of peril,
And treasures turned dust,

Aftermath beheld
In retrospect, I should have,
Could have would have dones.

All within a shape.
I finish my drink and sit,
Dusty nose n ****.

I want to give up,
Whispering Sith Professor,
Harks of homeworks past.

Birds in the distance,
Crickets lost within the night,
Still life in mid-flight.

Still life is my life,
Satan is the only way,
Jazz is close second.

Fellow holograms,
This is not an SOS,
This is a farmhouse.

…....


Jk, pls send help.
I fear if I keep going,
I may never stop.

I may not want to...
These are my last words before
I return to dust;

If anyone has
The heart to come and unwind,
Brains from my behind.

A cuppa tea, or,
A splotch of green to withhold
Things from coming apart,

If anyone wants
To comfort such who in
Nothingness departs,

I'm with Descartes,
In storms of bleeding hearts, a
Pupil of Fine Arts.