Monday, February 15, 2010

4

There’s paint dribbling down the rugged walls.

“What’s that?”

Two more strokes, and the broken lines have disappeared behind the red wash.

“What is this?”

He’s painting.

He’s tired.

“Who’s this?”

The cracks seep out into the drying brushstrokes.

Criss-crossing ancient networks of age.

Rot.

“He’s painting.”

They’re young.

Whites and sharp browns.

Liquid browns.

Following the brush.

Up.

And down.

And criss-crossing.

An ancient network of age.

He’s old.

They’re young.

But they know.

He knows.

They know.

Straight. Ramrod straight.

And charcoal dusky.

Who’s afraid?

He used to be.

They are.

Sometimes.

But he’s tired.

And they’re young.

And their eyes follow.

Up.

And down.

And criss-crossing.

Past the dribbling lines of spilt red.

In and out.

Across the charcoal.

The ancient networks of of age.

Cracks in the white wash.

Red wash.

Black and red wash.

Blood wash.

Sick wash.

Filth wash.

Yours.

And theirs.

And his.

“Who is it?”

And his.

His red wash of blood-paint.

Death-paint.

His strokes are dead.

He’s old.

And he’s tired.

They’re new.

They always are.

When they come stare.

At his life-paint.

On the wall.

Ancient networks of age.

Blood in the cracks of the whitewash.

Filth in the cracks of the whitewash.

Whitewash.

Whitewash.

Whitewash.

Wash.

Paint.

Paint.

Wash.

Paint.

On the wall.

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