I stole this picture from Leyla’s beautiful blog…I lost my lens cap – please go check out her amazing photography.
A splodge of thirsty roses,
life blood of a canvas’s
long since dried sketched lies –
discarded, smothered,
faded lines, bludgeoned
by competition and fear
of being discovered.
Pretty dancing
in the background is smeared,
blushed – too shy to tell us
the whole story
only whispered
on the periphery and held
on the breaths of onlookers
aligned left
then shuffled centre
to aim their commentary
full flow as contortions
sweat it out.
Seated opinion rises
like hot air from cold granite,
bubbles form around
formulated conjecture –
informative fingers stroke
and suffer five o’clock shadows
on full chins
resting under heavy intellect,
nestled on sturdy
shoulders
manipulated by
tongue twisting
inside of jaws
spewing philosophical genius –
all an illusion to camouflage
the insignificance of a poorly
executed display
of art, or a grotesque exhibition
of critics and the ritualised
second guessing
of the personae of artists,
all invisible and irrelevant
once dried inside the rose’s
layers, razed by
demolition of brush work –
delicate drops of fragmented dew
are lost forever like long
evaporated
opinion
that found this work
difficult to enter
because of how the metaphorical
resonance of the figurative-narrative
line-space matrix notates
the essentially transitional quality
and that the reductive quality
of the purity of (absent) line brings
within the realm of discourse
the distinctive
formal juxtapositions.
The simple red rose sighs
a still sigh
as animated voices trail off
into the void in search
of excellence,
and the nearest gallery
coffee shop.
As it Comes 