One urgent press of my crumbly stick
—a drag, a mark on pulpwood fiber—
and your bleached, watermark'd world is
marred by my desire.

The making of my line saturates,
and I Brando.
I taste minerals.
I maraca.
I floor it.

Carbon is the ash of romance,
compressidue of prehistoric fuck.
Pigment is how earth hallucinates,
locked in vasty dark of rockness.

I be worthy of my line.
I crush upon my empty page.
I make my self a living world.
A mark is everything to me.

O atomic paper
kalak alak alak
across my sooty centimeter
rassur rassur rassur
I scrape upon a billion years
sheshuh sheshuh sheshuh
I backhand momentary tears...

a rustling arc of red
PSA for MovDis


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Sunday, September 23, 2018

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fine art prints
writing by Greg Correll