jj jackman Judas antithesis - index
blank canvas (9/30/01) i’m a blank canvas untouched on surface skin by mechanically injected ink no strangled inner demon’s head in serpent’s form through shackled hands appears in fly eye glistening green and blue shades on my left upper arm i’m a blank canvas and like the virgin’s womb in anticipation only of the artist’s shape and personality whether he be Tom or Harry still he’s a dick piercing a place never visited by such a foreign object hesitating less from the newness of an old experience than from the knowledge of the course of subsequent visitants faithful to only one of noble acumen or anyone that offers the same for the right price i am a blank canvas who claimed to be born again though most had never testified that i had lived a moment of my life and why a second time when once had not seemed yet to have materialized and saying "later!" to the entire last supper in daliesque perfection upon my chest because the guy dipping the sop at the table reminded me that i was in a hurry that evening... i had to sell my best friend for thirty pieces of silver the artist pleaded... the job only costs three twenty, dude i’m a blank canvas too masculine to appreciate a little butterfly on my lower back just below my scapula or a rainbow crescent around my ankle bone or a spider’s web around my navel or dainty ink lines around my wrists and neck with such a small amount of commitment i’d prefer the square mark already grafted from my thigh and plastered on my lacerated forehead i’m a blank canvas and i’m not free yet to render what is not yet mine to those that could not ever know my heart and sure there are good doctors though most die trying to find one i’m a stickler and i’d be horrified to find years later that i’d spelled her name cascading down my left limb in Hebrew incorrectly and had openly projected the love of another these past dozens of months to every “what’s that?” some smerking as i’d be led to explain i’m a blank canvas but i respect dedication to whatever that might be and bow in respect to those that do not have an inch of skin that’s yet to spare for fine art’s static glare and though i truly love you do not question my devotion though it might be to but another cause don’t ask me when of why or what designs long seared within in untouched parts will emerge to be etched on my hide by your softly droning tool for my great markers are my poems my legacy the same and though you mighn't look much closer codes are plastered on my breast