MAD BASTARD

A palette knife of pain the morning after
rouses. His ear is pierced, his heart. Breakfast
is booze. He allows that Sidney Nolan
might be his equal, but in a different style
so it’s not relevant. He loves
the nothingness of working, the disappearance
of everything except the work. Except
the muse. The muse brings coffee.

She is his mirror and his DVD, she
turns life inside out, him inside out
he feeds upon her, fits her
like canvas onto frame, she fits him
like his mother, the first miracle. They
dance together, they make love, they spawn
this freakish, distorted, scandalous love-child
painting
sculpture
lithograph
for the world to turn its wealthy two-tone foot on, but
as the foot lifts
art that simply walks away, eternal as
love’s impulse.

Drunk, he’s laughing
obsessive, riven with unspoken oaths
showing her dressed and naked twenty times
flaunting, embalming her
so that she can live forever, dead

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