He said the world was full
of white butterflies
And footsteps of blood
He said
Bigger did not mean better
and that
White walls and obvious
juxtaposition
Though useful to the artist,
Should never be considered
art
He said we were never meant
to live beneath the sun
But rather, burrow deep
within ourselves
Consume and ultimately
become eternal fire
He said the world was full
of words
Masquerading as images and
vice versa
That
Some of those words were
made up of colours
Only ever seen at the
Heart of an exploding star
And some images, seemingly
deep
Were in reality wading pools
of bleach
On white canvas
Of all these things, all I
could find to
Convince myself anything was
true -
Were the butterflies in the
sky and
Blood red tracks
On the staggered concrete
behind me.