Poetry

Imagine, that "little yellow house"
Held up by rafters of epilepsy and canvasses

And the screams of oil-paint fumes and gunpowder
And absinthe and prostitutes and blades and blood

One claimed to be a buddhist monk in his self-portrait
The other was a sailor looking for logic on land

Arguing over theology and vowing never to fall in love
Dangerously, their perspective of the chair