between the ambiance
of melancholy and double bass
guerrilla symphony-
this suit of blooming dynamite
with fusing cuffs
-wears like an Armani tux.

he painted his easel
beneath a peace of shrapnel.

croshea a civil signature:
embroidered in braille
fashioned entropy-
by the threaded hairpin;
he spits the quills to dot the eyes-

and watch the kill.

with a stroke of grenade
-he's to be displayed
against the age of reason,
below the cranial splinter of amputee
and misinterpretation.

it was called his magnum opus-
below the sprawling shrapnel and teflon gulps.

he spit his blood on the walls,
and framed the gravestone in bullet holes
for all.
the shells powder canvas;
reigning down beneath a cloud of mag clips
and falling rounds-

this is lust.

this is the day he holds his heart-
and the artist is left red handed
in the capillaries of black mondays
self-expression:
paint and blood strokes close-
holding his breath against a question mark.

tourniquet highways
for the guerilla to spill his oil-
abstract with paint filled gauze
and starter flame
he illustrates turmoil.

he's to follow his heart-

choking on the murmurs,
he creates serrated canvas and disorder
-under grenade hearts,
their signature carved:

martyr art.