Beautiful & Meaningless

by Poetry

were I an artist
               I’d do something beautiful
& meaningless

were I a painter
& could distend light
across empty skies
I would paint the bodies of Christ
as they rolled in their eternal
loves & agonies
& I would paint the bodies & the pains
of all men
& all women too
who suffered
with bent iron
growing through their wrists
like lilies
arising from the earth

were I a worker of ash
               I would trace your body
in white chalk
on the black dress
you don’t wear anymore

were I able to transcribe more than my own pain
I would write about you
& the way you smile
when you pretend to sleep
or how you curl
around your wine
as though I was a thief
& not a worshipper at all

were I able
I’d turn up ugly
& disguised to my own exhibits
& loudly proclaim the artist’s failures
& demand to see the manager
call the artist a goddamned whore
a sell-out
until security threw me out
with free spirits inside me
to replace the spirit of art
I left on some
bathroom floor
or other

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modern poetry

After the Parasites Came

I draw my grandfather’s lungs in charcoal spit the fluid in his throat; tremor in art as is the shaking hands when he goes to lift the tea to his lips. Making leaves in old mugs transferred to sipping cups and the brief illumination of the body...

Northern Nowhere

What would Byron and his prose have done, oh Lord, if he had caught the 6:07 train to nowhere much but the glittering capital and listened, with drowned porcelain ears, to Scottish spiritualism, the artistic nothing and the great absence - these Nowhere people of...

Titan Titanesses (Dream 2)

Titan Titanesses lay to sleep on the breast of their mother; foreign heat burns and melts stony flesh to river run and freeze in slopes like highland homes mounted on the hips of not-dead things, but trapped beneath their own grass stone moss tree skin. Burst, no,...