Paint Some Life on the Corpse

Dissonant drops of night freefall
     their atmospheric ignition
     with uninhibited choral
     conviction, singing light to dim
     apparition, swinging moods tall
     poppies use to colour symptoms,
     ‘I’m not a manic-depressive—
     I’m a tragic Impressionist!’

     every patient says until
     his lyrics strip their covering,
     torn bandages exposing ill
     a palette stinging lips kiss when
     writing wrongs requires funeral
     attire, words mixing suffering
     with spherical music to give
     a brighter spin to what he lives.

Pain’s package blows its load, tranquil
     wreckage flowing out from within
     a shattered head gives him total
     annihilation when his pen
     only leaks to fill in these holes
     his creator had left open,
     an artist an anarchist with
     a gaudy complex to paint shit

     better than an unseen hand will,
     fame his poet’s tool for curing
     inattentive spans, with grand skill
     bridging what empty skulls c(r)ashing
     in on themselves inhabit, walls
     demolished as inhibitions
     dissolve and doors open, knowledge
     among mortals a colonist.