“BLOCK”

An artist gets stuck
as though buried alive.
Fingernails of neurons
scratching six feet deep,
scrambling and crackling
chipped paint
and splinters of skull.
An artist gets stuck
this way or another.
He pulls the onlookers down
into the grave to suck
their blood
and jack them off red handed
like chopping cilantro
on a cooking show in Spain.
The big eyed watchers get
away to carry on their lives
but the artist, still stuck,
dies down there
covered in their
blood, spit, and sperm;
The love letters of life.
Sometimes, it is better
not to get out of bed
until the water is hot
and the woman in
the shower hollers
for a clean towel.
Sometimes, it is better.
Most times, stuck, it is not.

narrative poem written on 06-13-2011 by: on mattkane.com
view image of poem

SHARE THIS POEM!

- Remove line breaks