The Minotaur: How to paint a self-portrait
self-portraits
are only half-truths, the kind of animal
you are
is
not a body of art;
it's a taxidermist's work
- A dead giveaway
like every matador
harks to the nostalgia
of the bull ring
and with a hunger
anorexic, the last of your days
now within a stall
like a dirty bathroom,
a home as empty
as the pit
of your stomach
and you might as well be
a horse beat to death.
or better yet
an old photograph,
undigested and unshaven
you held your arms
in victory
as if it was clear to see
who the winner
and loser will be
but your head was left behind
in the darkroom,
where you developed
like a bad habit,
the enigmatic and/or
caught by the nose-ring
and led to
a slaughter.
A Harlequin whore, each smile
wilted to frowns when
you realized you were still
human from the waist up
and you bared yourself
as an offering
for a lonesome butcher;
behind every pretty face
is a body of lies
that if you stare at long enough
turns to flesh;
You were split down the middle.
Half-(wo)man, half-
bullshit; a mis-matched
monstrosity, you posed
yourself as a question
but were shot down
like every smile's death
laid to rest
the small wounds tattooed along your ribcage,
dissonant amongst beauty water marks
flaws like cancer spots
are the stains
of an honest artist
but let truth be told (in black and white)
poster-child,
bull-headed like your father
you juxtaposed yourself once
to many
and have become anonymous
in shop-windows; to get to
the meat of things,
the heart gets thrown away
when it comes down to
the bare bones
and splinters,
how sad it is for you to want
to be human
it doesn't matter how you turn out,
it doesn't take much to
wipe the dust film off
your shoulders
when it's time to bare the load(ed gun)
and call yourself
the monster you are
torn, you pictured yourself
and they told you it looked good
when you refused
to bleed
; this is what separates
the men from
the Minotaur,
and/or a self-portrait
from a silent montage.
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