Laying Down and Underpainting

She called our love kitsch

From the 17th floor

Williamsburg high rise

Overlooking homeless in the park

Under dressed and over exposed

Was I kidding her or just killing myself?

Fascinated by her manic beauty

As she tore apart the morning in disguise

Throwing fits of rage like I’d paper in a bin

Stripping away my senses like her past

It wasn’t as much a choice as it was survival

Leaving her lust like the vanilla

She tasted on my ghost

While laying down the underpainting

For her latest masterpiece in loss

a bad artist

At the end of the day

when my feet are sore

when my mind is heavy

and I can’t take anymore.

Playing with matches I paint.

I paint such beautiful pictures

in my heart that burns

which no one can see

because I’m no painter

I’m just a bad artist

fingering napalm.