Circles

My shirt just hangs
a broken body bends
there's paper and clothes and plaster wrappings
a jiffy bag
nothing inside.

I'll use my new Dictaphone
and see if I can capture for once
all the tiny sounds that scratch at my skull
bring tears to my eyes, then dull

I've become numbing

I can't paint in blood
even if I'm drowning in it
there's water and a paintbrush
but the paint blots
and smudges
its good for nothing

maybe it was better off inside.

This is infinity
boundless, treacherous
endless
deceptive
unfeeling nothingness.

And I'm so pleased that I refused to change
but
my consequence
has played out into this
and this is strange

I want to owe nothing to anyone and identify in art
but with every line more

I'm becoming quiet
and subdued and calm

relative calm to the defiance that I'm bleeding out
into plasters and paper towels

eventually I'll just hang
and it won't matter if this broken body bends
anymore.