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Sitting With Zeus

An owl watches and scythes you in half. The artist smirks somewhere in the space of his grave. You are his blacks and his browns. Pigments melt to bone –      you calcifying dead weight. You sink inside of your sinking. Oil pierced, bleeds saline blue to the weeping of Zeus, thins colour to pale. There is no requiem. White of a silver kind stitches its larynx with the twine of haemorrhaged pink. Salvation is a robe sodden sapphire. The wings of sleep and death slit the cerulean of the sky for the sake of flesh and war. Creations rot rots light. No rendering of sheen, of glaze, of stroke can tear the opaque of the body’s liquid shadow but still a son begs wash me in the descendant of ocean. smear me with ambrosia. The owl unmoved. The artist cries where you buried him. The body is cold. Something between moon and sun makes seeing blind. Something between river and hell devours a child. There are teals and cobalts leaking from a wall in d’Orsay. The canvas begins here.




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