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.
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
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,