Used to draw, hard to admit that I “used” to draw,
Portraiture in a human form, doodle of a two-headed unicorn,
It was soothing, moving his arm in a fusion of man made tools and a muse from beyond, even if it went beautifully wrong,
It was tangible truth for a youth who refused to belong.
No-name nuisance, stools in a bedroom,
Oozed in a brand new cuneiform, barely commune with the horde,
Got a whole gray scale ungluing his world, might zone out to the yap of the magpie, unseen hand dragging his graphite,
Cross-contour, little bit of backlight, black ink after a Bristol to baptize,
As you can imagine a rush that ensue, when you get three dimensions stuffed into two,
Then it’s off to a school where it’s all that you do, being trained and observed by a capable few,
Back in New York, five peeps and a dog, in a two bedroom doing menial jobs,
Plus, rhyming and stealing and being a clod, distractions free to maraud,
I left some years a deer in the light,
I left some will to spirit away,
I let my fears materialize,
I let my skills deteriorate,
Haunted by the thought of what I should have been continuing, a mission that was rooted in a twenty year affinity, and rickety condition with an ID crisis, nap on the front lawn, look up at the sky, it’s..
Shapes falling out of the fringe,
All heart, though we would’ve made cowardly kings,
They will chop you down just to count your rings, just to count your rings, just to count your rings,
And there they were,
Colors pouring out of the fringe,
All heart, thought we would’ve made cowardly kings,
They will chop you down just to count your rings, just to count your rings,
Used to paint, hard to admit that I “used” to paint,
Natural light on a human face, stenciled fire on his roommates bass,
It was blooming addiction, a miss and a push and a pigment,
Book like a tattooed pigskin, look Pinhead kids intermittent,
Drank Kook-Aid from a tube of acrylic, and I grew up in a linseed oil over linen,
Joy to the poison, voice in the resin,
Capture a map of the gesture, back it up, at a little accurate fat to the figure, redo that, move that inwards,
Zinc-white lightning shoots from his fingers, studios drone with allusions of tinctures, stay tuned for the spooky adventures,
You can imagine the stars that align, when a forearm starts foreshortening right, or a torso hung on a warping spine, of proportion reads as warm and alive,
Routine dat with a dirt cheap brush, then a week goes by and it goes untouched, then two, then three, then a month,
Then the rest of your life, you beat yourself up,
I left some seasons eager to fall,
I left some work to bury alive,
I let my means of being dissolve,
I let my person curl up and die,
Eating up his innards and unfeasible anxiety is brutally committed to relinquishing his privacy aligning with the trials of anti-Midas,
Nap on the back lawn, look up at the sky, it’s…
blakekathryn
kianamaiart
theartofmadeline
