Finger Paints

Would I could take an artist's fettling knife
and slice the tips of my fingers away.
And from each diced digit
different hues would bleed.

I'd view the page blank
and the sanguine syrup would flow into shapes
and forms of my mind's careful choosing.
There my pale hand rests, exposed as
rivers of color form a chromatic estuary.

A mallet in my right hand
I smash the left and
tiny bits of bone float along the current.
White sails released from a marrow marina.
They too flow into the vast ocean
covering the page,
adding textures and
irregularities across the form.

Mallet replaced by stiff haired brush,
I carefully dot the fibre into
the whites of my eyes.
Like a fluffy merangue,
my orb's foam scoops from the socket.
I dot the horizon,
eyeing those delicate clouds
with the remaining blue pigment held therein.

Would I could peel back the flesh of my calf
and dig into the sinew beneath. The stringed
meat of my leg makes a lovely meadow of wheat,
wouldn't you agree?

And from each foot, lucky toenails
plucked adorn as rooftop shingles
on a most stately, English countryhouse.

Into each window
of the house a tiny bubble
blown from saliva, transparent
and shiny. Glass blown into the viscous
mucus to the page, sticking into place.

From the knobs of my knees,
permanent bumps cut free,
they dot the landscape creating rolling hills.

I lean forward, to the fragrant
page, and sneeze
as though I breathed the spiciest pepper.
A flutter of golden
green butterflies fly across the page.
Their delicate wings ride the breeze
til taking root in my artwork's scene.

A saplings bark built from my very own prints.
Trimmed back oval lined finger.
Unique not only to me, cause now
they're shared with baby trees.

And a shaved head of hair
dusts the copse
with brown leaves. My crafty
corpse's deciduous decision
provides this artist his final glee.