Never seen before in the stormy clusters
of the light of day, my paintings mirror the
dark of night and never show any snowy white
light in my world where dark generates passion
and fear. My wife opened the door and saw there
was no light and only night. “Stop painting and put
on your clothes,” she said, “why do you think we
She shone a flashlight in my face and saw it was
acid washed, her scream it seemed woke the dead
and zombies came knocking on my door looking for
some flesh to eat.
Living or dead, they raised a stink that couldn’t be
washed out in my sink. My neighbors came to complain
but became hunks of meat hanging from a rack, and they
were a tasty snack for the walking dead.
I stepped into the dark after they did that in my house. I
wasn’t scared as a mouse, but they never left and I didn’t
have a chance to paint with stinking dead stumbling around
until I painted their drooling faces.
I never understood why paintings I made of zombies were in
such demand by old men who wanted to become like them.
To live after death and eat flesh again. So when night came I
always painted in the dark to become like them through my Art.