Thinking in sets of three,
blogging simply two new poems,
it will not do.
I am unsatisfied unless I can provide,
at less three poems,
to hand over to the faceless masses,
to feed the internet void,
almost as if each poem was a sacrifice, a voodoo doll, or a totem.
Here write three poems and ask the universe to grant you,
one simple wish.
Whatever you wish for, make it good, make it real, make it really beautiful.
Someday’s I feel
like the Artist with a hole in her heart.
Or the artist with a hole in her art-it’s interchangeable;
is it the canvas that is bleeding,
or is it just me, making a mess again, out of
raw emotions, bled dry, covered in pictures-ink splatter,
here and there-a rorschach blot…
OR a sumi painting,
or such a thick application of acrylic paint
it simply appears
that my canvas is lying there bleeding.
I like to do things in sets of three.
Superstition get her grasp of me.
Poetry is an unrequited lover,
never to call back or welcome me with an embrace.
Art is less chilling and cold,
Art warms to the touch and then
the imagery I cannot hand over to poetry-
those images, pictures and random stuff
feeds on the dreaming drawing,