I never could prop up a failed elbow’s art gallery shaft,
Louvre welcomes vast, snob, cold or ludicrous, unextended.
Twenty thousand leagues under the acrylic,
If only to break the painter’s resolve, heaped in beige
on the floor, for a block, at the guest’s bench’s remorse,
desperate clingy till the hours go off and again dud you’re bound home.
Yet ever since with paint’s poise invited, gasped for air I’ve been,
I retrace, reshape, try boots’ every flapping museum snitch,
in volatile water colours’ sling and Kanagawa rehearsal belief
I stand for nothing more but a room, a painting, long hall, and hours to miss.
A plastic art prompt from a converter from a dumbfounded cultural adversary in aloof fatigue to an opening disciple pursuing taking in at last all the paint, dimensions and hues like a gasp and eventually find their own empty marble hall to gaze one on one with a piece of artism daringly.
Highly recommended to read this poem horizontally, in full extension of the work’s format
