1. 17:09 11th Sep 2010

    Tags: my poetry

    contemporary art

    the painter, crouched on the floor, his back bent like a nail kicked out of wood; he jotted blue paint, half on the canvas, half on the wall, and i wondered what he thought he was doing - what color is that, sir? what does that stroke mean, and that, there, to the left? do you use blue because you’re sad? and that shade, the deeper one, is that because you were sadder that afternoon than this one? i hung back. finally, he stood, clutched his lower back and groaned. the paintbrush, still clamped in his left hand, left a long streak across his t shirt. i watched, unabashed, now; he walked by me, head high, eyes focused on a distant figure, some intangible desire which transcended my mousy little face. he left. i sprinted to the painting, the blue, an omniscient monarch, watched me approach, my sagging shoulders, the pudge jiggling over my stomach - i leaned my face against the paint, felt the cold color rub into my nose, cheeks, forehead. i pulled back and admired my art. i walked away. it would get no lip print from me.