The Blind Guitarist
A Poem
The footsteps of rain
Patter naked glass
On the distant walls
-
He sits on the ground
Tuning the voices in his neck
Echoing endlessly
-
His moldy feet smother the floor
Reaching for the heat
It crackles in the other room
Deep below the wood
-
He lifts his milky skull
Peels awake his teeth
Harmonizing with stale air
Dancing on his tongue
-
He vocalizes
To fill his lungs
And remove his soaken wraps
He turns his oily sweat to ice
Pulls it from his skin
-
Frozen between broken fingers
Plucking at the strands
Etching maps into the strings of his guitar
Of places he can never know
collage:
Awesome shit man. I love the way your voice is developing. Keep grinding 💪
Love the collage, beksinski+picazo+liminal, recontextualizes the blue paintings period beautifully