I ran it over filthy palms
and let it gather rivers
over red and black stained fingertips
down the bathroom sink.
It separated in marbled forms
spirals, globes of pearled gloss
a film of ruby blood
floating on my reflection.
And there it mingled still
amidst the chemical bath, of salt
and fury, and the image of my face
very much like yours
but framed with curled copper.

And so started the canon:
Longing for the man
The anguish of that August
And the mania began-
Oil, blood and crimson
turpentine dissolves
memories of madness
ritual resolves
purposeful starvation
resurrects the dead
the artist of the flesh
wears a crown of red

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