In the gallery, girls with wishbone legs
crack past a brief apostrophe of passion
captured in a thick impasto swirl;
lost in a vast, red nothing landscape.
Everyman squints, bewildered by it all,
can't see what the fuss is all about,
peers close in hope of microscopic truth,
falls loose to the reign of painted space.
A guard wanders, disconsolate, beside
the triptych row of needle waterfalls,
punctured through a cave of abstract black
where ideas try to thick line plant a grasp.
Country falls through finger cracks:
the conquering descent of all that is,
makes desert plains and long coastal lines,
marks dark nights with a signature of flame.
No comments:
Post a Comment