The Final Piece in This Collection

is an epitaph of the end of him: Always plugged in to something and nothing. Unplugged from the world’s color wheel; a hostile model. His vile diluent seeps into oils, turning all a tepid sepia. Screaming into a rabbit hole, he’s cardboard, two-dimensional. Absent and there, fattened with empty. Sitting like a noble royal, yet under the façade just a rotting portrait in the corner. Dust and pixel gathering, admiring inorganic shapes of violence. Now the world, disposed of this depraved subject, will paint strokes, write, speak of better muses.

painted clown
on velvet
flaccid balloon in hand

E. L. Blizzard

The Final Piece in This Collection

Leave a Reply

Please log in using one of these methods to post your comment: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.