Paint me on your body and make my tongue curl up on your curves so that way I can taste and smell your everything on your holy canvas.
Like a nun on a Godly rehab.
Like a drunken boy on a stool.
Like the devil trying to be good.
An honest man is fiction, like a roach that causes pleasure or a bird that doesn't peck, so, imagine one, create one, save it on a drawer or put him under the bed.
A knife comes in, fluffy, slippery, no sweat, not a tear, red.
Red oil, brush it now and paint a heritage, an impossible future.
"Tres bien", says the man on the corner, as he realizes that a new sculputure will be made out of the crumbles of the man.
I'm him. In. Out. In. Out.
An eye to gouge away so a cup can be made.
A mouth to stitch up to place the tools and the cup.
Ears to tear, pour some paint on them, or just toss them away.
A head of ideas, take a look, but be wary.
You've darken your thoughts, so now it's impossible to think of a color that matches you. A color for the lovely canvas.
In. Out. Explode.