1
A man is such a bad object
for art, he tries to make himself
the subject, when he should
be flesh for the eye and imagination,
a hollow shell to fill with desire,
but he wrestles against the governing
eye, unruly, his millennia
of domination cracking paint
and marble entombing him,
the beast, the predator to be defanged,
his immortality should be
to be put on display as a skeleton
and as a skinned flesh
over a rusty iron frame -
but dust will do.
2
What was he thinking about
when he painted this work?
We might never penetrate
this mystery of soft flesh
begetted from his brush,
that organ broken free
by art's scythe akin
to the one birthing Cypris,
this whirling of breast
and buttock and limb
and fair face straight
to capturing canvas,
Monarch butterflies
in their multitude.
28.-31.12.2025
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