Poetry
THE MASTERPIECE
My work is art.
Each sliding blade my pen,
Inking shifting lines of crimson over each fresh sheet,
Rivulets from the lines I cut,
Collecting in a little pool in the neck’s nape,
Tracing the curves of the muscles,
Working themselves into a masterpiece.
Resting upon cold concrete, freezing body,
Muscles tensed and wide open eyes;
This is the way I work,
My hands gripped around it,
A harsh, angular, gleaming pen,
Licensed and polished and cleaned,
Well-maintained, ready to write the next piece.
A squeezed trigger makes it happen.
Each fired bullet a brush,
Painting those red red roses,
The split-second blooming of a diluted flower.
Fountains created with each stroke,
A shifting mist, tugged by the breeze.
Each skull my easel,
And each wall behind it my canvas.
Each hand does the work, gloves or no.
The wire sings a perfect note when tugged rigid,
Brighter than any light display,
Sharper than any wit,
And when looped and twisted it sings again,
Serenading my unwilling audiences,
A lullaby for their endless sleep.
My work makes me happy.
I revel in the poetry of it,
Every line I write, etched in stone,
“Forever remembered”
And all that jazz.
Each mandate a preview.
Each obituary a review.