Wednesday, October 18, 2017

How He Painted His Portrait


He began by standing
grandly like a cavalier –
a wily stylish royalist –
bound to his king by reflex –
all ample elegant virility,

tastefully testosteroned:
his thrill was real. He warily
leaned back – quick hands
turned cowboy: reached
for guns – tense spine

relaxed into impasto, half-
mixed hues, whites, blues
and greens – scarlet,
black and turquoise mark
the outer limits of the paint:

there’d be a void
of unalloyed un-painted
canvas beyond that:
what color could one call
unpainted canvas?

Ridiculous and inexplicable:
no point beyond existing.
Someone said to think our
species had more purpose
than to be organic landfill

was presumption. But
presumption will insist. His
cowboy/cavalier’s still here.
Albeit with those funny
squiggles out each ear.


.

No comments: