Hot Mess

Lurid canvas.
Twist of magenta, stink of cyan.
Pedestrian, common words.
Made stupid and plodding.
By tools plied by myself, the amateur.

Who gave me this command?
The brushes and tubes worse than wasted.
Even the keyboard implicated.
In this pillar to cloy and clutter.

Before the crumpled paper.
Before the purge, the recrimination,
Bigger I am, than the putrid slap of shame.
Bigger I am, than the nausea of recognition.

To look straight on, steady.
Not avert, seem brave.
To stand erect then gaze.
To be breathless, even
By the audacity of it all.


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