This poem is sort of gritty and noir, I like.. And, rhyming scheme is great.

I've been trying to loosen up a bit on my structure and rhyme, but I find it hard because I really like the symmetry of it. Anyway, here's something a little more free-flowing I did when I found out about this Kurt and Courtney biopic that Love is apparently putting together.

I'm almost embarrassed to share this one because of the first two lines... Almost.


There's a gallery under his clothes
Of fresh wounds to fuck
Each gash he makes opens an eye
But, each blink is now grand with torment
He's no longer the right to be dressed;
To be seen

His face caked with seven, strange colors
The dry, rigid layers are cracked
By his every expression
He sits by a mirror and he peels one away
Each day,
Revealing another invention

Soon, he has pried at his own fleshy film
He takes off his mask and he smiles
He hangs his own face up to dry
They clamor to buy
What they proudly must don
As a trophy
To their sensitivity

Now, they all stand
At the feet of his handiwork
Clutching and tapping their chins,
Like hot microphones
The painter;
Listening, laughing and jerking,
As they strain to detect
Every vague undertone

Quickly,
He runs out of paint
In wells, they collect all the trickling acrylic
To dip their dull wicks in his own crimson ink
To transcribe his journals
To make him a soft drink

His body's still wet,
Incarnate;
They sop his imprint
With a long sheet of canvas
And, harvest his bone as a tool
To slash, milk and swell
The price on the tag
That's been,
Callously,
Strung to his toe

It's time for you to come out of Weed Heaven and Potville for a second and give me a little informationi! - Captain Lunatic