Brushtips, Fingertips

I wrote the greatest poem ever. "Roses are red, love is fucked." No one else seemed to agree, so I wrote another. This one stretches the metaphor well beyond breaking point, but when I am loving and losing, I don't really find that bothering me.


I.

After the blood loss, I injected
my chest with thick oil paint.
Alizarian Crimson for oxygenated
and Cobalt Blue for venous.
I thought someone might
want to paint a picture with
my earthly remains so I took
a shot of Cadmium Yellow
with a turpentine chaser
so the mortician could paint
with this world's whole
spectrum at his brushtips.

II.

Before you (and us)
I think maybe I
was an artist and now,
after you (and us)
I'm artwork out of
context framed without
you, nailed to a museum
wall, with a plaque to
tell the casual standerby
who I am, in life, art, love
(and us).


III.

"Me" ca. 2005-2007
blood on canvas,
oil on flesh, lips,
toes, thighs, knees,
penis, fingertips,
elbows, heart.