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...
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