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He comes home from art school
and finds cold food on the table
and a note
Something along the lines
be good, eat, do your homework,
clean your room, be good
Love, mom

He puts the food in the microwave
pushes the buttons
waits
takes the food out
eats
There's a mirror on the wall
across the table
and he stares at his reflection
as he eats, watches the way he chews the food

He turns the TV on
and then off again
The house is silent as always

He gets into the bathroom
and removes his clothes
steps into the shower cabin
turns on the hot water
stands under it, shoulders slumped, looking down

The glass walls of the cabin fog up

He smiles

raises his finger
draws a feminine shape on the steamy glass
and rubs his hard penis against it
He knows that's all the art he will create
and all the love he'll get

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she had long
dark
metallic looking nails

and black lips on a very
pale face

the clothes too
were designed to make her look
cold and dead

but she was quite lovely
to her new boyfriend, the mortician

She was an artist, she'd told him
And she'd also
told him that she'd like
to learn more about
human anatomy for her drawings

"That one!" she said on
their sixth date in the morgue
"I want that one! Cut his head
open from forehead
to nape. I need to see
how the brain's
kept in there."

He sighed and prepared the
electric saw. There
wasn't much for him
to complain. He'd done
pretty well
at 47, hooking up with this
22-year-old

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"Muses," he said, "aren't only
for writing
and painting, and stuff
like that.
That's just what the
world likes
to believe.
But me, I use my muse
as inspiration
for pranks. This is my art."

A few days ago
he dressed in
ragged clothes
and got his face dirty with
soot
and went around a
bus station
begging people for
spare change

He didn't get any,
but that
wasn't the point

The point was to be seen
by as many people
as possible
as he cried
and stated loudly that he's
so hungry
he could eat anything

People did their best
to ignore him
until
they saw him walk by the
trashcan near the station
and reaching for
something inside

His hand came out
with a
used diaper. It looked full

and yes, he proceeded to
unwrap it and
lick and slurp its contents
as the people watched,
gagged,
and walked away
remembering the day
for the rest of
their lives

"Of course it was just
chocolate sauce," he said. "That's
how pranking works, you
know?
My muse gave me the
inspiration for it. I put the
damn thing in the trash can
before the people
gathered to wait
for the bus.
Chocolate sauce inside
a diaper. I'm a genius.
But, you see, my art is, as I've
said, not like
writing or painting. It doesn't
remain as a solid object
in space when I'm done
working on it.
No, my art is more
like dancing. It's about
performing for a crowd,
capturing their
hearts
and leaving them with
a memory they won't
forget for
as long as they live.
If I weren't an artist, if I didn't
have my muse,
I'd be a dead
man now."

Yeah, I believed him.
Meanwhile,
I beat at my own art. But
problem with me
is that
I won't ever be as sure
of what I am
as this guy

Even after all those
years,
I still don't know if
I'm an artist

or if I am
anything at all

If confusion and uncertainty
were my art
I'd be a god

Or maybe not. I'm not
even sure
about that.

All I know is that
I write
and keep on writing
because there's simply nothing
else for me

So I guess
here I go
again

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like a popular song once said

She couldn't remember a time
when she felt needed

So she wrapped the
blanket around
her and cried while biting her
lips

oh, but it wasn't entirely
correct. In the other room
the old man kept
shouting her name
and knocking on the wall
He'd soiled his
underwear
again and needed help changing

She was very
needed now. She'd been needed ever
since mother left
for the last time and father followed
her
drunk as he was
and rolled the car down the hill. He wanted
to hit mother and her
new man with the car
and missed
And now his legs wouldn't work anymore
and his imbecile daughter
didn't take care of him
the right way

"The right way..." she said. "Is to
let you rot. Let your
body match your soul, old man..."
She placed the
pillow over her head
and closed her eyes
and remembered
the song

If love was red
then she was... 

"We all have to accept it,"
she said. "There's no cure
against getting old."
	
She was in her mid
twenties

but she had an accident
that left some burnt marks
across her face

about that
she never wanted to talk

It was taboo

She'd rather
sit on the roof of the
hospital with a coffee
and talk about
the glory times of before
the accident
when she used to
dress as a nurse
and infiltrate the hospital,
sometimes this same
hospital she now stayed in,
and rob the patients

"I made so much money
back then," she said. "Oh, I
was pretty damn sure I'll
never work a day
in my life.
You know, people will forgive
so many wrong doings,
as long as they're committed by a
good-looking person, like I was
back then.
I got away with all of it.
I was in my prime. Looked
like a schoolgirl, but
with the confidence of a
thirty-something year old
two times divorcee. Hah.
Once I got one
of the doctors to be so madly in
love with me
that he cut off the entire hospital's
electricity just so he
could meet me in the dark,
on the roof,
under a starry sky.
Yeah, those were the times.
Now, the only
thing that stands between me
and suicide
is the fear that I might
survive.
Yep... well, have I told you
about the time
a patient paid me good money
to piss into a smuggled vape?
He vaped it too. I watched
him.
Ah, the more I think about it
the more I wanna cry over
what's lost. I can't
live like this. I just can't..."

The doctor listened
patiently to her
as he smoked a cigarette

and as he was done
he gave her the
ski mask with a hole
around the mouth
and told her to put it on
before getting to business

"Is it true that your profession
attracts the most
psychopaths?" she asked as she
got to her knees. "I mean, you sure
are one of them, no?"

"Nope," he said. "I'm actually
doing this out of
empathy.
Aren't I making you feel
desired again? You
shouldn't complain so
much. This ain't nothing
special. It's just how the world
works for people who
don't look that good."

"It's hell..." she
said

"Ah, you'll get used
to it." 

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the old man stank
but he
stank more
of booze and cheap
tobacco than
filth

his mouth missed
a lot of
teeth
and his eyes
would never
look
in the same
direction at once

but worst of
all were his hands
Now those were
really messed up

He claimed he had
paint tanks
under his nails
and he wasn’t lying

he was mad
but not a liar

He could paint
wherever he was
on any surface

And he did

pressing the stump
of his fingers
against walls and
furniture
triggered immediate
bleeding

and then he
would trace on and
draw something
Usually a penis or
some hairy cunt or
some silhouettes
fucking or
something like that

Then he’d step back
admire his creation
and laugh
and suck at his
bloody fingers

Ol’ Bloody Brush
was a celebrity
around the
block
He never had
to buy a
drink for
himself
There was always
someone to treat him,
an admirer
a fan, a disciple

Yeah, at 66
Ol’ Bloody Brush
was living the life
unlike other wannabe
artists who devoted
their existence to
the craft and got
nowhere

These guys,
they had the talent
and the drive

but Ol’ Bloody Brush,
he had the madness

and the world
was coming to learn
the difference 

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he downs the second bottle
of wine
and then curses the
beer for not
tasting as good

the rectangular desk before
him looks round
now
and his chair grows wheels

all the insects in the
apartment
crawl under the
clock on the wall
and spin the hands
backwards

lots of things are happening
but the
story before him doesn't
write itself
The paper is still pale
the pen
still frozen
The next word will never come
out
let alone the next line

He leans back
and the demon calls from
the other side of the window
and tells him
to hurry up

"That's not how
writing works," he whispers back

But he doesn't
know how
it works anymore

So he just stands
and walks to
the window
opens it
and answers
the call