Sunday, 10 March 2013

Finger painting


I remember crossing a highway once...
and feeling the wind of the cars flicking my shirt...
...warm wind, dry, like the breathing of desert creatures...
Of course in dreams it is always real this disconnection
Burnt orange skies and clouds like mackerel scales
And trees leaning to the sun, their arms like screams

I would like to do finger painting...
That is honest art, feeling that coldness in the lines of my palms
As daubs of blue and green and red shape my fantasy
Formless like the ideas that are imprisoned in my skull
Wanting to come out; wanting freedom

I cannot remember her face anymore...
But can still feel her warm skin
Once I was the palette upon which she sculpted works of nameless beauty
While my dreams were of forever
Hers were of then and now, snatches of the present
A freedom she wanted to fill without ties

The puerile joy of finger painting is innocence, a regression
Sensation, not imagination
Or rehearsed lines to a symbiotic crowd
Spontaneous, a “fuck you” of squalls and arcs
Purely emotive bleeding colours
Oh... what exquisite release...