193
Sonnets From Other Lives: Alf

When he was on the paint would seem to flow
directly from his mind onto the surface
of the canvas. For days he would go
without sleep. A manic, focused purpose
driven rush of creativity
followed by a blackhole week of funk.
The pictures piled up but he had to flee
the studio for his flat & then get drunk
while the darkness had its way with him.
Of course the cycle couldn’t go forever.
He loved the highs—the pictures sold but then
the art went bad & crazy— voices gathered.
He refused the safe dullness of lithium
& opted in its stead to buy the gun.