There are stacks of accumulated regret
Pushed against the garage wall
Many of them already gessoed over
In ever fleeting bursts of optimism
It’s not the failures that haunt me
But the ones that I talked myself out of taking to harvest
I haven’t opened a tube since before the incident
The sketchbooks are stored out of reach
I can’t be trusted on a ladder
I can see the jars of brushes from my convalescent chair
Itching again
Early morning piano concertos are lovely
Until I start doing the math
I stare at the Sloane painting
Where the clock is irredeemably
janky
It’s funny
In the hospital they neuro-tested me to draw a clockface that read 20 to 11
I failed miserably then wept like a child
Maybe I was never able to do it
And why would it matter?
It’s funny
In the hospital they neuro-tested me to draw a clockface that read 20 to 11
I failed miserably then wept like a child
Maybe I was never able to do it
And why would it matter?
This mad brute yearning for immortality
Stabbing pigments into taut canvas
Falling on his face time and again
Ultimately to be erased by a fucking cluster
Whose burden will it be then?
These stacks
These desperate stabs at relevance
My foggy brain still entertains every horrible idea
As potential brilliance
My foggy brain still entertains every horrible idea
As potential brilliance
What if?
For my last creative act
For my last creative act
I crudely painted cheeseburgers
On each of these delusions
Then you will know the truth
About how truly shallow I am
What a surface level
Bargain basement
On each of these delusions
Then you will know the truth
About how truly shallow I am
What a surface level
Bargain basement
American Lad I’ve always been
