by Nick Gisburne
This is my corner, my piece of the plan.
Everything. All of it. See what I do.
Artist, philosopher, more than a man.
These are my paintings, my pictures of you.
Canvases, ripped from a blasphemous book,
Slathered and soiled, with my brushes, my bones.
Yellow, for sickness, wherever I look.
Grey, for the granite of bludgeoning stones.
Sable, the hair I would kill you to cut.
Purple and ochre, for bruises, for skin.
Bloody, the mix of it, bile from the gut.
Sulphurous, septic, infected with sin.
This is my prison, but you are the key,
Broken, and locked in my corner, with me.
