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take a walk with my whimsy
Voyeur, Voyeur

 

 

                                                                                                                                         It’s not the art,

                                                         it’s the way you look at a painting that removes me from my skin. 

 

I’ve watched your eyes      spellbind,     bewitch          the scaling paint,             chipper             

but chipping       like a flash        of lightning          now yellow sand         now glass,   

curvaceous             like your trembling hands                      outlining a shape too small        

to fit the size of your perspective.                                            But into the jar it pours, 

it takes whatever of you it can get.                                                           Just like me.

            Strokes hang like bodies from a bridge,                                    bled dry from pointing                

 the index finger, a weapon.                  I am held back                                  from throttle 

when you cry       at the figure in the foreground                             raucously abating 

into an indigo forest,                                 fluorescent only in patches where you say 

  ‘Don’t’.            Your soles rise a few inches,                                           you lean forward, 

and I know your name isn’t Alice,           but what if                                        you fall in?   

A thrown complexion              of those who cannot see                       your primaries.      

              Only spectral blobs ricochet                                                           like blinding headlights.             

While my palette is dry,                                               yours as full as a volcano of white. 

I hate white.        

                                                                                 For even how you look at a blank canvas confuses me.                                         

When the painting forces that you  release your tongue to outline its exosphere    

                       and I see you        peck                                        at the plasma on the belt of its horizon,                             

I wish                                                                                        to never speak to you again.

                                                                                   

                                                                             The museums that stress on the silence

                                           are my favorite.