between the ambiance
of melancholy and double bass
guerrilla symphony-
this suit of blooming dynamite
with fusing cuffs
-wears like an Armani tux.
he painted his easel
beneath a peace of shrapnel.
croshea a civil signature:
embroidered in braille
fashioned entropy-
by the threaded hairpin;
he spits the quills to dot the eyes-
and watch the kill.
with a stroke of grenade
-he's to be displayed
against the age of reason,
below the cranial splinter of amputee
and misinterpretation.
it was called his magnum opus-
below the sprawling shrapnel and teflon gulps.
he spit his blood on the walls,
and framed the gravestone in bullet holes
for all.
the shells powder canvas;
reigning down beneath a cloud of mag clips
and falling rounds-
this is lust.
this is the day he holds his heart-
and the artist is left red handed
in the capillaries of black mondays
self-expression:
paint and blood strokes close-
holding his breath against a question mark.
tourniquet highways
for the guerilla to spill his oil-
abstract with paint filled gauze
and starter flame
he illustrates turmoil.
he's to follow his heart-
choking on the murmurs,
he creates serrated canvas and disorder
-under grenade hearts,
their signature carved:
martyr art.
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