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

were wed?”


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.

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