Painted piglets behind me,
Fat and flat on four wood panels,
Prod silent trotters into my back.
I poise poetic before twenty-
Odd still-life visitants in arty
The papers in my hot grip drag heavy,
Canvases with characters print-painted.
Larynx brushes stroke sonic my words,
Drawing sound colour out,Daubing hard on plosives.
The lines waver,the paper corners flutter
In the wind of my dread
As i wax and press on ahead.