Caked in face-paint,
Insignia of art,
Or merely of fear.
Clamour of yak.
Yakety yakety yak.
Aloof, a spoof,
You cackle and incriminate.
Her strokes caress,
Clumps of colour
Erode the shores of madness.
She laughs
And asks “is it alright?”
We shrug in flocks,
And gawp at charcoal brains.
And her, who sat stricken,
Conjunctivitis of perfection
Snarling from her absent eyes and
Bucolic morals,
And she always had
The thinnest paintbrush.
No comments:
Post a Comment