Dust

I observe psychedelic approach too young
to sculpt her glorious capture
A concrete passion. She was a drug.
Why mount every sense?
Shimmer my art, write out through mad junk
& use ink instrument
It will mean ‘Masterpiece’
or yet more aesthetic symbol.

An angry canvas at best
they investigate original silhouettes,
as smoke is metaphor. No monument.
No unimpeachable line of time.
“Be empty?” asks the electric green angel.
“I give only to picture” I reply.

The sun drops through the slats
fading in late winter afternoon,
pointing out dust in the air playfully and gently,
as if it were never really in breath at all.

This scale is for subject, music is my colour.
Though I hear no harmony, and so paint absurd.
Dazzle. Perform. Compose. Above waste,
Imagine my balance in full nude song
and thinking would create joy.

Wild as my demand – like dry death
after dust and pain.

PO