Oils on canvas.

She is a running chainsaw thrown into a crowded room.
Amy. Yeah.
Her face… a cold pale reflection. Exquisite. Vile.
So lovely
cold as a dead sun..
She is
I painted this woman as beautiful, far more lovely than what could be called her real face, i suppose..
after all of it, after such an exhaustion, a corrosive THOROUGHNESS of abuse..
after so long and so long
though the features ARE hers, the beauty that has swollen with is my own. it grew from
me
paint
in my own hands.
I painted her, because
i will be more than her. i will
I WILL shape what i CHOOSE with my hands.
“The Frail Sisterhood” is an archaic term for prostitution. I… will let you infer from that title what you would.
And…
This… of course…
When the last letter burns; A scar on the flesh of your inner thigh,
a sickness of time.
Flailing but soft and ribs under skin.
Attenuated and flush against ice under water.
Collapsed into itself and fed with colors and selfless fading rage.
Blown out like surf or a candle,
a light bulb a curse or a mind.
A porcelain flinch spattered warm soaked corpulent
Tart and sharp behind her teeth and so bright
such colour
Such colour!
And she’s so far less beautiful than the her that I had conceived;
My own memory a scratched cup,
a bent fork.
Each millimeter of skin
It’s own unique flaw coming together and
not making a whole but more pieces.
Fleshy and pallid like a clockwork moon
and will never want her,
from me oh
Licking the life from my fingers
oh