I am so unsure of my motion; it feels, a rather fixed movement;

hand clasping the brush from a hurting angle –

my fingers

 

            tight around the slender running

pulse

my higher craze; peacock ridden, with stricken thoughts of love,

blotted

on the bone before me – tempered with falsities

and flattened method. But it neither holds or supposes

any form –

just water running from me, unable to colour the flood –

a plain dread.

 

My fingers slip -

 

a milky field  turned over by the grey  whistling of the gap,

believed - the grey I have seen

being a sentimental non entity, a shout, a torn paper –

closed to contract –

pirouetting through nothing forever –

sick to wipe the paint on my sleeve,

 

a buckled loss, my head in my hands –

the arrogance

to conceive.

 

The water blots my soul away,

all those running – all those tossed away  -

 

I am so unsure of my motion or any solid content,

how little my motive –

how sweet the shit of minute effect

to gurgle through the grey an unholy red,

for a second, borrowed, to shatter my face, repose,

cut me up in the projection of someone else’s clothes,

 

stab in the snub of a prolific courtship,

 

rinse me in the repeat of a remastered beauty –

 

but neither the paper nor the heart will pleat,

rid me of exile through design,

give me a colour proud to say,

give me a frame proud to hold

give me an eye proud to see

give me an hour proud to live

nor make anything of me, proud enough to leave behind.