I WANT TO PAINT

I want to paint the difference between fiction and that sensational summer sent also that salty sea shore then that Christmas spirt that lay there sleeping on the floor, soon I’ll be painting a child’s snore, a tiger as sleepy as a door, and even a metaphor and the silver sunset beyond my front door.

I want to paint the middle of a blue glass eyeball, the petrified peach lay there on the dinner table, that lonely log lay there in the lingering lake, that dark feeling at the brake of dawn like a witch is piercing your soul in that one gloomy hole.

I want to paint the sores of my mind. I want to paint my faint memories of my long lost granny. I want to paint the scarlet shore. I want to paint the sound of fire crying its wicked screams.