Six ways to kill yourself in art

‘Real genius means pushing the boundaries between death and art’

Inspired by: bukharinwasmyfavouritebolshevik

Six ways to kill yourself in art (26th June 2008, 2.29pm, 27th June, 9.09am)

Immortalised, the poet lies,
in a pool of words; tiny
punctuation marks
decorate her neck; her
mortis grasp upon her pen;
the laptop wires entangle
her limbs, locking her, blinking,
to her last, unfinished poem.

Red splattered, the artist
hangs from the studio ceiling
once more, with feeling,
paintbrush dripping
in a circular pattern,
creating one last perfect image;
white spirit rises, fume by
fume, to fill the room.

Flat out and face down,
the dancer bleeds across
the stage; one last great
performance, drawing out
every last sinew, as the music
echoes, the final movement
continuing without her,
her heart burst with effort.

Nothing left to say, the writer
has been sentenced to death
by his own lack of inspiration;
the angry muse twiddles her
thumbs, itching to bruise his
neck again; two perfect thumbs
like a necklace, throat open,
one last gasp of protest.

Distressed, the chef has
popped his last cherry into
that wide mouth; the roast is
in the oven and he has indulged
himself one step too far; a recipe
for disaster was being struck by
fits of laughter at the shape of
his apprentice’s tart.

Descending the scales,
hanging in the air, wearing
only a G-string, the musician
dangles upside down, a cappella
in his death throes; the pianist
gone home for the weekend.
One last solo, rending the theatre;
appassionato, then a niente.