Stains

Rip wretchedness
torn socks, stained by
sweat and sludge.
Rip the soul
right outta them,
drape across
a canvas wall
like an animal pelt,
stitched by
shrieking hands.
Let the stink of filth
lay, gutted,
on the crisp, pristine wall.
Oh shut that door ‘cause it ‘aint workin’ anymo’
Socks like
little guinea pigs
gutted.
Slit that slut until
the sweat spots drip.
Use little white thread,
not red, to patch
the sore pads up
instead
of gawking like little
itt-bitti gremlins.
Rip rapture right
through the cracks
of this entrapment.
Conjecture. Contradict.
All fuzzy cotton, rubbed raw against
the clear white frame
of flat perceptive pieces.

This art stands out like none other.

It is a dirty trash heap
strung up for the whole
world to see. It crawls
up the wall, to seek its own
distinct deformity.
Rip it all to hell.
The outlined sock soles
show wear and tear
and do not know
of how much they smell.

Do tell

me how they reek, as watchers
frown to find
what is disgusting, yet kind
of like a Rip into their
sinister souls to know
what they know. Rip it and stitch it up
like the punctured lung of a deflated bowl.