June 18, 2008

• The day I met you.

  Hands soft as silk brush against my own rough and tattered skin. Receive my coins.

  Such gestures are not of generosity, for it is not a virtue of my own.

  I dream of highways of blood, nicotine, alcohol, and heroine settling upon the floor.

  A mere byproduct of my sculptures of flesh, bone, glass, metal, and wood.

  Tattered rags, reeking of sweat, urine, and shit. Red eyes, rotten teeth, an unshaven face. Beautiful.

  Will I simply throw an axe into your head and use it to hook your body along the pavement as I drag it into my car?

  No, much like art, life is not that simple. An artist must struggle and self inflict pain through their own strenuous labor of love.

  Be my canvas, my freshly dug glob of clay.

  Rotten teeth. Rotten teeth.

  Greasy little jagged thorns of calcium, yellow and black, caked with bits of last weeks dinner and plaque.

  Cold rusted pliers of steel bind upon your teeth, twisting, jerking, and pulling.

  "Infected wounds are dangerous things," I whisper in his ear.

  Handfuls of table salt fills his mouth before it is stitched shut with carpeting needles and fishing line.

  Fingernails and toenails. Nasty, ingrown, little things. They carry the scent of garbage and shit.

  Garbage and shit smelling like garbage and shit? Impossible.

  One by one, I peel them off with a bottle opener. and scrub the dirt away with bleach and iron wool.

  My gaze, my smile, gleaming with cheer.

  I love the feeling of anticipation before something wonderful happens.

  This is just the beginning.

  • 7:51 pm
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