woody was an artist
he stole his supplies from
the council depot he said he
knew the score he sketched it out for
me with red paint and an old tooth brush he said life was bloody as was death and that the old world had to die to make room for the new I asked him what the new world would be
like “like new” he answered and walked away knowingly woody was heavily charismatic he’d never been called an arsehole
when he’d gone I took the opportunity to scope out his latest
work it was a murderous apocalypse
of a painting it was still
wet and I got some red on my
fingers I left my incriminating
prints all over the death of the old world or was it the birth of the new? I was a criminal in the both worlds it seemed this and the next
*painting by Picasso
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