|
I'm smarter than a chair, until it needs |
|
red paint |
|
Then I'm amazed in a forest of stares |
|
Crying oil, and picking horsetail feathers |
|
From my eyes |
|
A grin of shadows press my face |
|
I am a forger or a fake |
|
Who dabs and bursts each blood-filled egg |
|
And whips his raw steak of a brush into an X |
|
I wanna quit with all my skin |
|
But I can't find a place to sit with all this red |
|
On my hands |
|
Or even trace these slapdash tears back to |
|
the start |
|
I coat it twice, and thrice |
|
I rub it on with tan lotion |
|
And like a child, I let it stream |
|
Watching it ebb, full of emotion |
|
My neighbour stares, I'm red as Mars |
|
(He's smarter than a can of paint) |
|
'It looks real nice, he finally says |
|
'And where's your lovely wife today?' |
|
She's in the house baking a cake. |
