Artist's Jihad

All art is pain
 
It starts with the parasite of truth
that stings the lining of an artery

And from that conception, incubates a pearl
which splits the corona
as it rockets along the same path as DMT;

teleporting into the mind as a muse
with an uber delivery of new marbled hues
on its palette;

ready to tattoo them onto the scales of my antiquated pinecone
like a festive decoration to the divines of Spring's Equinox

Each scratching groove reverberating
like the twang of a key on an out of tune piano
in an abandoned parking lot

Or like jackhammers renovating the flooring of a conservatorium exam hall

And, when I regain my composure,
all that remains are the red tribal blotches of mosquito pricks
on the diptych that is my feet at day break

Oh what a bloodied canvas
this thing called art!