Portrait of the Degenerate as a Young Artist

These moments at 5 am where 
I cough up paint like blood and 
hasten to arrange meaningful form 
asking what does sex look like as it stretches 
over canvas? 
A gaping hole of interlocking pieces 
thrown up casually into place 
like taking a midnight drive on a
country back road with 
no plan or reason 
          pressing the pedal 
          out of boredom 
and something succulent springs

"Maybe the canvas is already sex," you say, 
"with all the woven strings tightly bound, legs over thigh, over knee, over leg."
"Well that is beautiful" I say, "but I still 
wanna see all that dripping red paint" 



Arguments with a paper cup

What words are left
What pithy punctuation can note
will this still work tomorrow 
will I write/be

An anxiety plagued by water
Filling up to my eyeballs my ears are
swallowed and my faith drowned
Call up the moment to work
show me what you have hidden 
Please let me turn your static into beat
Turn your back into bridge
I need to find poetry in your presence 
Just hand it over and I won't
chuck you in the bin 

Copyright © a contemplation (Emily Jones) 2013. All rights reserved.