Death of an Artist

Art is a pain in the ass.
A dark urine stain on new slacks.
The scent of tainted water
in a cup of the father.
How sinful we artists are
with our hands bleeding, charred
and fingers barely, feeling,
diligently secreting
a lovely aneurism.
This sadomasochism
upon a virgin white spread
some say is all but dead.
Looking into the casket,
raising Brian's hatchet,
I see fear in those eyes.
You, artist, are still alive.
But winter is coming.
Can't you hear the rumbling
rolling out across the page?
Hide with the actors backstage.
Until I return, bleed on
for scars will never be gone
if you pick at the black scab
to leak talent you don't have.