Making blood paintings on a beach of perpetual night
Waves crashing, mixing the stained sands
I can only take pictures with a silly huge camera of yesteryear
But that＊s how this sort of thing is done
Tourists laugh at me, stare and wonder
My decrepit teacher doesn＊t even want to lend me a brush
But I have a big one and won＊t give it up
I slosh the soft mass of a head in the blood bucket
The softened bristles soak it up well.
The only bright color in this world
comes splattered in the sands under my waving arms.
Some live in the stone-gray waves of saltwater, undulating
In bubbles of some kind, but I can＊t see clearly
Some of the bubbles come up onto shore
Maybe the people are angry when they get here
And that＊s why they＊re trying to kill me.
When they come I flee to one of two places:
The first is a brittle and ancient tree with rough and deep-crevassed bark
And it grows endless, nearly vertical ash-colored branches
Which break off as fast as they grow.
I dash into the tree with my camera 每 the proof of my art is within that thing
And the branches hissing and cracking off
beneath my steady and quickly climbing limbs
Throw shards and debris and large masses of falling branch
at the assassins below.
They climb below me but they can never continue for very long.
This is my house
It＊s strange in its ways, but it＊s quite safe
The second place I can run to
is a hole in the ground which simply has lockable doors inside
They are made of cold metal and painted pale yellow
The passage presumably has different hatches leading back to the surface
It is forever night here,
The ocean water silverish, the brittle tree gray as ash
The sky filled with dim stars 每 never anything like a sun.
Nothing grows around this saltwater except the tree.
The silent and scowling art teacher only looks on in disapproval
But she 每 like everyone here 每 is just a bundle of facial expressions.
Never a word is spoken in this lifeless place
where people 每 even though they laugh awkwardly 每
apparently find my blood painting of deep interest.
People inventively watch under their mocking smiles
as I take the human-head-like brush
and slosh it in a bucket of fresh and shockingly red blood.
That＊s the only true color they＊ll see here
I smatter it in burlap and gray-colored sands,
Washed, bled and mixed by the tarnished-silver waves
The people＊s eyes＃I can＊t see how they perceive
I＊m looking at a boy whose eyes have problems
I can pry his lids open with my fingers
And see two rotating, nearly blind and colorless eyes
which can＊t move together or see straight.
I can pity him, but I can＊t love him.
Explanation of "Gotham Beach"