He gave me more blood and noise to paint with.
I gave him vomited vodka and a hug goodbye.
I indirectly apply my blood and noise to the fabric of her skin, a cheap theatre costume for an unwritten play, for a character who is a nonsensical nonentity.
Who wrote the unwritten?
Was it you?
Because I expended my supplies in the theatre, the painting is finished, incomplete. I chew it up and spit it out, like a mother bird feeding her little chirplings. The invisible birds nestle in my hair, chirping sweet lyrical lullabies to bid my consciousness away. I don't chew the frame for them, I kindly let it live and be worn as my suit of armour.
The day after the night before,
Puppets devoured by the stage trap-door.