Stretched across his canvas, all fragments of my being quake through the woven hemp. Each brush stroke brings him closer to ecstasy. I am pinned to the easel, for his gaze; a vessel he experiments on, plying his imagination. Our encounter - | artist and art|; committed to categorical differences, distinguished tiny quartz crystals from sand. At the site of his dipsomania lies a burial, mine, clay moulded with no urgency.
Elongated through his paintbrush, my flesh mutates, exploding, blending and bleeding into his art. Flesh of my own morphing into imagery of his retina. If only I could explode the eye sockets, the chosen land of my secondary burial.
His art excavates flesh for à tool, his artistry, brisk havoc. Yearning to conquer the abyss, I find myself fighting through the lustrous hysteria.
Staring through his gaze, no remedy for the wrath. Projected, portrayed object, all my emotions assumed a stroke, glitching on his canvas. The floating acidic paint scent delivers his guilt; he revels in his fiendish enlightenment. Within myself, he has incubated an envy, swimming through the pulse of each stroke. Womb, I carry it around for a while, leering at all that he owns, monitoring him, possession in hand.
Gloating in his hue and manity, he pridefully sends me into the world. Signature along the dotted line, and I am stretched further, crucified across galleries; piercing gazes claw into my pulsing nerves. His images of me lead before I speak, breathe before I exist and haunt us; they know not; it’s just a representation. His myth yearns to persist.
When they fail to stretch me further, I leak through the cracked hemp, crawl along the artist, the noose to his greed.