my mind is an unpainted sticky canvas, being stirred with a stick, it spatters and imprints all with the hues of snot and albino blood and broken blueberries
my mind sits cross-legged and chews on a paintbrush and gets dust on its feet and shuts down regularly
my mind eats metal and cheers on the dissembling paint my mind is good enough to eat, or lick or taste or maybe just look at
it is a confectionary imagination, an edible impression my paint is oil laden and smells like turpentine sludge and beats a dirty rag with splinters of the wood it stores in cold chambers of pigment-splattered gray metal
my mind is a relentless still-life painter who likes impasto and smears paint on a paper with a palette knife and wishes the painting to rot between the eyes
my mind eats sponges and soap, it lives in a wash sink and leaves the tap on all night
my mind loves canvas, curls up with canvas unstretched, sleeps with canvas, assimilates itself into threads and burn marks, it teaches it a lesson and strips it of all broken qualities, makes it pliable and does not dare wash out the faint scent of salty perspiration
my mind is a slowly shrinking painting on the wall it burns and suffers agony of stretched crackling paint it pulls muscles and feels ripped it feels without water, it breaks and it slides off in dry agony
it crumbles like an empire, it dies like an old king, it is buried like a disobedient slave
my mind is something more