it is the absolute worst thing
to be left on a wall
and told that you remind people of heaven...
to be gawked at amazedly
or gazed over coolly
and declared beautiful in your surreal completeness
i loathe that reverence.
i loathe this entirety.
what about this frame?
its smooth, ornate organicness that strangles with its patience
look how gorgeously it imprisons me!
or notice those exotic breasts displayed on the left,
the melting field that beckons to the right
i insist- worship them, instead
i wasn't always like this, you know
not an escapist's window in manhattan,
not a magnum opus waiting to be stolen or burned or to fade
i was once an impassioned brushstroke,
a mess of hues on a makeshift palette
yearning for the sensuous touch of a knowing hand
(he'd apply me gently to an eager canvas
and make masterpiece of my naked potential)
but we foolishly long for such things in our uncertain youth
-such wholeness and perfection and fame-
when in truth, there was no greater satisfaction
than to be the blurred vision of a madman,
spilling drops of you across his lap and chest
as he tires to capture the view that no one sees
.it is so much better to be a thought than a thing.
if i spin with all my intensity
perhaps i could implode, instantly
tearing all of my facsimiles from those hollow dreamers' books,
freeing every stagnant citizen of arles,
taking the final, brilliant bow of a bursting supernova!
and the white walls fall barren
my adoring pilgrims w(o/a)nder on somewhere else
and all that prevails is the longing shade of blue
the only one you need