Your tone’s a knife — carving ink-blot syllables,
rust-and-oil-despicable, you’re hurling gazes
laced with deep contempt, with thistle words
and soot I’m suffocated, I am a stranded fish.
We pick in wiltedness the thorns of grave-
yard roses sick with Blake’s disease, a worm
of midnight fingertips, pressed darkly against
our temples, we are burning bridges tenderly.
Thunderhead emotions, seaside seaweed-rot
as silence finger-paints the hidden sky
where starving constellations cannot show the way
we feed the kilns; a pyre for what’s past.
Jackson Pollock, No 8 Black Flowing
Linked to Magpie Tales
Björn Rudbergs writings 
Sweet Jesus. This is my favorite of yours, thus far. This is outstanding!!! Every word. It fits the painting perfectly.
Ooooh! Hurling gazes laced with deep contempt, with thistle words and soot I’m suffocated….. Fan-tas-tic!!
Love your opening words…the notion of Pollock’s tone being a knife…excellent…
I like how your poem gave us a glimpse inside the emotional turmoil that we think was the artist.
Very chilling and good at the same time.
Holy moly, this feels so delicious on my tongue, the literary devices are killing (in a good way). Your intepretation of the image is raw, suitable and for some reason it remains me of C. Dickens.
nice to read!
Love, raw emotion in his poem!
Oh, this is packed with great phrases! Everytime I thought I found a favorite another came sideling up beside it.
I really love this one, “as silence finger-paints the hidden sky”, awesome!
So much going on in your poem, so much in the picture. Brilliant.
Rosey Pinkerton’s blog
Drips made him famous
Drink made him dead
Most tragic to have lost when the one is destined to be famous.
Hank
That first line is wonderful. It says so much… about the work, the style, and the essence of what it might inspire in other people. A knife can be for killing… or for reshaping… or for cutting out decay.
Wonderful.
Brilliant. That first stanza is pure…poetry!
I would say amazing write, and add it is one of the best I read from you so far. I can’t pinpoint exactly what makes me feel so, but there is just some reality in the weaved atmosphere, like a tremor.
deepest wounds are often given by sharp words..nice take!
Oh yes, I believe I can almost depict the images that flow through these words! Bravo.
Your chaos is beautifully penned. Love the ending.
Wow, I really like this one. I can picture this in Vine Leaves Literary Journal.
Incredible ink-blot syllables, thunderhead emotion, thistle words … knifing a path, to the dark closing lines.