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| I am a slowly greying, stretched canvas: with taut, white paper skin constructed to be strong enough to sustain arbitrary stabs of coloured oils: my anaemic sandpaper pores dilate in anticipation for human contact, only to be bludgeoned and scarred by horse hair prickles and plastic knives. People use me to exhibit their suffering. The grainy veneer of my skin blooms bruises of blue and purple, foring a composition of an azure acrylic sky. My body is a clockwork stigmatic; helf together by staples and wood, I am bled involuntarily of my creator's blood, sweat and tears, leaving my martyred body strung out to dry until I surrender to my own inevitable ventriloquistic dependency
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Comments
Allison McLean | Oct 22nd, 2007
I love the imagery and choice of words.
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