the world’s greatest painter takes his shotgun into the cornfields

[kobeyashimaru]

…and he pulls the trigger.

The sky turns red and the painter flies
through space, cosmically, with
lesser ex-lovers and greater gods,
not singular yet plural, like the many
ants in the universe. Everyone
scribbles Marx and claims obsidian
headstones, past Pluto and vast empty
vacuum of space. The painter holds off,
searching for the one who got away,
see also: committed suicide.
See also: long lost love.
See also: love’s labor’s lost.
Last Christmas was the last Christmas
where she carved vivacious quips
into her arm, tearing vein.
Pushing through a cosmic library of
surrealistic dawn, radiant and lovely,
a skyline, etched in black stone,
the better part without the city.
Through months of disappointment,
earth-shaking, ground-breaking,
a glass of Scotch, smooth jazz before
peace.
Before the cosmic dreaminess of
America’s sweethearts dampens the
acoustics, the painter’s bug-eyed
mystical vision turns to Pollack,
a bittersweet irony.
Vibrant multihued rainbows flash
with incredible seizure-inducing colors
redorangeyellowbluebrownblackblackblack