Friday, May 29, 2009

Workshop of Horrors

I live in a workshop of horrors.
Playful at times—
faces sweep the streets
with war paint.

They’ve been painting houses,
or homes,
I’m not drunk enough to tell

I see the dancing of the guns.
A myriad of plays—
they say Hey I’m here for
your money.

My workshop contains brushes
and knives,
hardly containing brushstrokes.

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