"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
but hell was just a floor below
in the living room
There was a blazing fire
in the fireplace
and there were plenty of screams
coming from mother and father
They argued again
And from upstairs, locked in her
dim room, she knew that
the gnashing of teeth and the shattering
of glass would not be late
in echoing through the walls
They always liked to break glasses
and bottles in the fireplace
while arguing
The fireplace was full of
sparkling shards now
She still remembered the afternoon
her little cousin came to
visit with aunt and uncle and not knowing
any better he tried to pick
the sparkling treasure from the
cold ashes of the fireplace
and cut himself pretty
bad
But who knows,
perhaps there really was a treasure in
that fireplace
Whenever mom and dad left the house
she would stand before the
cold fireplace
and watch the sparkling ashes
like a starry night sky
and would start daydreaming
It worked for a while
but then she just had to reach higher
She had to reach to the stars
and remove the biggest she could find
and slice her wrists or ankles with it
The sight of her own blood
emerging from the shallow cut calmed her
down a great deal
And when mother and father were
in the house, arguing as usual and breaking
stuff
she had her scabs to scratch and peel off and
chew on
That also provided her with a
great sense of calm
But unfortunately mother and father
hadn’t been out in a long while
They’d have to get out
soon
because their dearest daughter had
started plucking her hair already
and that could turn into a problem. She could
end up looking less pretty than
she was with only
the cuts and scabs
the last time they
saw him
happy
was when he told them about
that weird dream
he had
in which wine
poured from the tap in
his kitchen
and that
was it
he had nothing else
in life to
be happy about
They didn’t need to
ask his
profession
Somehow they
all knew
he was a
poet
Daydreaming as a profession 