I turn around just as
J. spills his guts
all over the place: paint
in violent streaks, smeared
by hand. His gore is real.
The horse is not a horse.
There are no faces. You can see
the seams. I know his wife
left him. I know he holds
a taste like nails in his mouth.
His art boils over.
His fingers are black fingers
on my wall. I did not know
when I asked this of him
he would kneel in my living room
and pry his ribs apart.
I can see the minnows flitting,
bright flashes in the pool
of his chest.
He will leave
and I will be left
with his not-horse-
not-face purged
but alive on my wall.

*This piece is in progress. Comments welcome.

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