The Painter Guy

He touched her face, gently, trying to read all the lines. All the pain that she had had to go through all these years. He took his time, surveying every nook of her body, slowly gently, trying not to upset any joy… any worry that might be nestled in it. Shoulders, elbows, ankles, thighs, breasts… His hands traverse her expanse and stop at her lips.

He had everything he needed to paint her on his canvas now. He left a small sigh in the tangled mess that was her hair and shoved his canvas into the trash can. He spilled his colors and made her walk in them, caressing the rainbowed footsteps as she made her way into the gloom of his heart.

He made her stop then and slowly, with fine strokes, he began to daub her with darkness. He worked patiently, worked hard.

When he was through… she no longer existed… And all that was left was a shade blacker than black…

LIGHT

Castles of minutiae built upon a beam
Careen around the bones of black holes
There, these infinitely free spirits ride
Taming the fates of constellations

For men and motes are of the same matter
Ricochets and words; finer atoms evolved
From the curves and wars with space
Do the ancient castles run their race

Not paying heed to desire but only simple Will
They are beaten back to rubble for want of standing still
Caressing the abyss they know, in their final hour
That this tale was but a moment, for a lonely flower

Tattoo

I could paint a poem
On your back
With a Chinese brush
And India ink.
And then, with a razor
Or pin or sliver of bamboo
And a stolen hotel towel
(to daub the blood
and excess black),
I could make it
Permanent.
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