Take the painting and wash the brush clean — bleach the canvas, nobody wants to see that. That monstrosity, that vibrato, that purrrr ception, accept the drums so low they scrape the guts squeaky and leave the citrus intent of disinfectant behind the wall. Wall off your chest, cave inside the sharpened toothpick held for bones, burrow inside the fleshy purples and blues and chlorine, but polish off the top, nobody wants to see that. That vibrato, the drums, the guts, only wash the intent, the perception of — squeaky, cleansed, low. But keep those walls firm and inflated, firmly insulated or the citrus effect of discontent, the intent to disinfect, cave sharper than the drum’s vibrato in your chest, shield that monstrosity, polish the top inside fleshy burrows, paint the brush and leave it held for bones, beach, bleach, the canvas, please, don’t let them see it getting —
Who are you kidding? Nobody wants to see that.
