Caricature

I draw myself 
With a red charcoal 
Still breathing and burning 
In afterlife 

The shape of my head is a shade
Made of thousands of fingerprints 
Left by all the people I met
Some I remember 
But mostly I forget 
Those with their teeth
Sunk in my throat 
As if ripping me apart
For the words that I wrote

Wind takes my torso and I am turning into a tide
Flowing with flayed limbs;
Deeper into the drawing 
Past pulp of the paper
Into the girth of the ground
Like roots and fruits 
I am sold by the pound 
Sold to wishes and worship 
Sold to order and obedience 
Sold to answers and acceptance 
Sold to nothing and negligence 

Transparent flesh
I design my thoughts so they can please
Eyes of the beholder
And as I grow older
I intend to paint myself as a mosaic man
And many see in me
What I may see in many: 
Eyes coming closer
Merging on the bridge of my nose
A single center 
For my dissolving circumference
And it is odd to fall inwards
For the implosion leaves no leftover 
Other than the suspended emptiness 
In the middle of the throat 
That neither screams nor stays silent
But echoes; this pencil stroke pain
Rising, apprising my churning nerves 
Like nails dragged upon my spine 

The shadow beneath my feet 
Portends a prerequisite that light must be nearby 
So I shade, the lines of my face
The folds in my dress
Gifting myself my gratitude 
In a bow made of shoelace 
For I am poor man
Who breaks one pencil in two halves
And loses both in no time
For I am poor man
Who when his world is being coloured 
Pretends it is a crime

Most nights I sleep
Sitting and looking at a blank canvas
As if it is the canvas which is painting me
In colours kept secret by mirrors and mirages
It is sad though that feelings cannot be reflected 
Only inflicted and affected 
Feelings by their virtue of being 
A past participle and present continuous 
Is man’s eternal tense
A void with wisdom
Aware that the sum of all it’s infinities 
Is simply a zero

There are times when I rhyme
My gestating philosophy 
With archaic words
So that when I speak 
There is rebirth
And I am assured 
That my thoughts 
Those infinitesimal, dust motes 
Will live on
In the veins of mortals
Addicted to immortality

So perhaps I draw myself
In a way I shouldn’t be drawn
For who has seen one using charcoal 
To colour the perfect swan 
But I am not a swan, you see,
I am crow beaten black and blue
In an attempt to create something new
Out of desolate frequencies 
And distilled time 
A still life portrait 
Dead by design