Artiste Peintre


It was about transparent skin.

Translucent like a ghost organism from the deep depths.

This clear wrap enclosing the vital organs: the heart, opaque rust red, the lungs – huge and grey-cast. The spleen and the stomach, churning away, visible.

It was about the intestines, moving independently.

At some point, one broke through the membrane, and as it slid out, groping, it, and the others that followed, morphed into tendrills

And then it became clear. She had become an artist.

Pink and pulsing – grotesque in her lack of shame.

Innards hanging out and passive in the ebb and flow of the judgement tide.

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