Chronic Canvas

Picture: Jay Nabonne

charcoal clouds smudged by thumbs
once haughty –
leaned before angled perpendicular
with promises of black line afterlife; mid air

heady, hung like his smokers’ lungs –
fringed, black laced –
grieving for some time
and for something sinister – brooding
but not quite imagined, not quite
realised on life’s stark canvas
where thumbs are shadow puppets
still stuck in contemplation.

how does one recreate visions of the dying,
and paint death’s culprit edges, dimly
lit by shadows inside wheezing
last breaths?

smoke filters fraying cushions
of shape shifting disease –
hidden, toxically poised – exhaled,
life is spent nervous energy and regrets –
all bad scions; not a good wash for pretty
pastels caught in a ridiculous tango
with painter, thumb and a wispy capacity
of mournful oxygen rattling alone on canvas.