art(i)st needed

for a ghost writer
to scribble
my autobiography
in audible alliteration
to sculpt me out of butter
based on my profile
as seen fired
from the barrel
of a gun

i realize
i am less poet
than performance artist
casually picking scabs
while a rapt audience
of none
watches on

these are not words
but bodily fluids
in high spurts
as i seek some hint
at if i am steering
into another iceberg
on my fool’s mission
to discover
a new shade
of despair

clear tarps
will be provided
at a small upcharge
but the brave know
there is nothing
like bile
varnished dreams
to open the pores

fashion eyelets
to my joints
work me
like a marionette
to paint my self portrait
with shaking hands
and the eagle eye
of disinterest


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