That moment you realise people are writing poetry about your paintings and it makes you feel humbled and a little excited :D whitenails.blogspot.co.uk When I was drunk and fingery in a clinch, Athwart my wife’s flesh with the same reverse-pinch I use to enlarge things on my iPhones screen – Dissolute, nails untrimmed – my eyes were not keen, Wont to hide as one who feels undeserving; But now I sit with her in the Great Drawing Room of the Ettington Park Hotel, where in Celadon surrounds a strategy to win Salgado’s painting at auction emerges, And something inside me reaches out, surges Out from my temple and into the sour Air: a childs pronated hand, or art’s power To reconcile, disincarnate before me, Limpid, in phase with my own precarity. Disincarnate art’s power to reconcile, Is my soul, divested of body, tactile To your touch? Outside of life and odious Culture, out of phase with death and Proteus, You remain a child in perpetuity: Is your hand an aura, tantalisingly, Of my own hand, or if lowered, might it feel? For so long, for so long, I have felt less real, And now, by your presence, this sense is affirmed: Have I cheated constant changing patterns termed Of Proteus forever, or will I go Back?
Posted on: Thu, 20 Nov 2014 10:07:52 +0000
Trending Topics
Recently Viewed Topics
© 2015