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I’m a little bit Bukowski baby.
You’re a little bit Basquiat.
Warhol & Whitman.
Poe & Picasso.
Pollock & Plath.
Morrison & Matisse.

You hear the line that means everything.
I see the mixture of colored chaos that creates it all.
Can we make it work like art?
Our combination of creative energy.
Attached to your infected mind & my black heart.
I still ask…Who takes the lead Jackson?
You or me.

Everything exists here between us.
I feel warped & wrong, lust & loneliness,
Sad & sexy, bad & blessed.
The pleasure seeking pain of a poet.
The manic self-involved madness of a painter.
The good & the bad baby.
We got it all in spades.
Ramblings in our souls of those who came before.
Along with knowledge that we’ve both been simple whores.
Selling our goods for pennies on the dollar.
Slanging our genius from the asylum door.
In ripped up t shirts with paint on our hands,
Hollering…Who wants to see a little more?

The words…like drying paint, not to be revealed.
Until complete, ready for mass consumption,
The inspection by our peers, the jesting or the cheers.
My verbs like the movement in your mind,
They are subject to our situation.
Forming within moments of madness.
And relative to our relation.

The wet paint…like poems forming as visions.
Strung together words like colors struggling to stand out.
To say something significant.
To explain our decisions.
To portray our personalities & reveal our religion.
These pieces of life put on canvas.
Just like the words written down which define us.
And remind us of how we once felt.
About love or hate,
Or when we drank for 5 days straight
And cursed each other’s name.
I can write about your reasons & you can paint my face till the end of time.
Still that doesn’t bring us closer to knowing what went wrong or who is right.
I’m a little Bukowski baby & you’re a little Basquiat.
Both twisted & beautifully flawed.