the writer says, i can feel the words with my thoughts but not with my fingers, and i cannot trust my thoughts because objectively they are not real. repeat after me: i will only believe what i have physical, sensual proof of. i will only believe what i have physical, sensual proof of. physical sensual proof - the writer says, i process that with my thoughts; therefore, there is no proof, no physical, no sensual, no reality, and no "me."
"blood" will not splatter my fingers incriminating crimson; "skyline" can't stain my palms abstinence-blue or offer me refuge in cathartical clouds;
but i can write. i can write something beautiful, beautiful, beautiful, beautiful i can produce.
to create something beautiful, you need a canvas: if you are no salvador dali, life will do. have your drea
on a watercolor hill,
plucking on six strings absent.
two halves of breasts running near
under van gogh's starry night,
under black-white guernica.
everything in all jigsaws,
everything in trepid cubes.
a girl before a mirror
with violin and guitar,
sitting with three musicians
and a woman with her book,
stippling all realities
of intangible maternity.
hours yielding from dalí's clock,
minutes sub-the alchemist
like rain, like raining, like rained—
portraits wilt with abstract smiles.
clear sfumato, oh still life,
napoleon at seven.
Picasso: From Harlequin to Minotaur to Eternity
WEARING PICASSO by WhileyDunsmoreArt
His life was one continuous revolution of artistic experimentation and expression.
Having developed one art form to the point of germinating a school of its own artists, he would move on to discover another direction for his artistic genius. His art encompass
and he knew every one by heart.
He used to paint them across his eyelids
like all the famous artists he knew:
(although he always made certain
her pieces were in the right places).
He called her his Glamor Girl
because her pupils were filled up with stars
and her heartbeats poured glitter into her veins
and she laughed,
how she laughed at his midnight-filled wink
and all the ways his breathing stopped when she was around.
He promised he'd hang her name on the moon.
He swore he'd never find more inspiration
than he did that afternoon on the pier,
the wind tangling her hair
and the sun
glancing off the sparkles of her skin.
was never more appealing to him,
and when she glanced away,
he could hear his heart break.
There was only one way she frowned
and she used it that day
and maybe his paintings of her were like Picasso's,
If I was Picasso I would have packaged up my innards like Moving Day, vacuum-sealed to preserve freshness. I would have squared away my trachea in cubes, hung my lungs from the rafters on clothes hangers and draped a billowing white sheet over my heart. I would have slid my nose three inches to the left and flattened all three of my dimensions to meet your expectations.
If I was da Vinci I would have carved open my diaphragm to show you where you fit inside. If I was van Gogh I would have given you my own ear like a bouquet, so that you could carry with you what delights in the crystal chandelier of your laughter. If I was Warhol, I would have packed myself into soup cans and delivered the entirety of my being to your visio
To be honest with yourself, though, you couldn’t deny the fact that you weren’t really that much into art. The occasional picture, sure…paintings, maybe, but never in your life would you be able to walk through an entire gallery for a full day and actually enjoy every second. But with Feli there, you were hoping he’d change your perspective of art entirely. Glancing down at his hand, you smiled inwardly to yourself as he continued to drag you along.
Yes, maybe he would make an art lover out of you in this one trip alone…and perhaps even…another kind of lover? Eh, one could only hope that Feliciano would actually read the signs that you were sending his
and more of painters while
are taking pictures of trees
composing words out of
i fell sideways and
down into a rabbit hole to
soothe my aching
ears; but silence makes us
stronger and we
can't run too far
we were born in homes
on the street.
i'm a bit of
and insomniac and
it's morning again; but i
haven't slept in
three weeks and four days
and thirty six minutes.
i've been counting the
seconds since you left;
i'm quite pleased with
the improvement in my
math and motor skills.
now that you're gone.