In Amsterdam a few years ago I stood below 12 sunflowers. Standing still I stared at the bright strokes, bold With something but I. Could not understand I. Did not see a plan, and I. Felt small, my heart in my hand alone below bright beaming sunflowers Some sort of morse code.
Through the frame I look at sunflowers still stale. For a moment I was nauseous and the world spun round Like a horror story the painting asks for a gift. I could not provide, salty eyes and lips I could not give, a heavy handed thought. So I turned on my heel and left.
Where is the artistic creativity That electrifies Earth stupendously? Where is the music that beckons Sorrowful people to the heavens? Where is the poetry that screams Passion and love in one's dreams Where are the beautiful paintings That greatly fascinate The human eye?
You are the woman with the perplexing smile The pearl earring of the golden age The starry sky that offers asylum, The clock that melts time on tabletops, The great wave that dissolves froth and foam The venus atop the shells on the waters, and The charismatic fire even the seas thirst for And I will be your artist; the desires to sketch you What desires to sketch you
(Read the first line, then every other line that starts with an upper case. Read the second line, then every other line in lower case. Then read all lines as a whole.)
sweet smells of chardonnay whispering and him waltzing in from the kitchen. as if Jazz had legs and walked by you I smiled and he danced towards me. so I said, "paint me up a storm Cassanova. Tell me all your secrets and your lies. And if you don't come back tomorrow, least I'll know we had a chance to say goodbye"
living room mess curled up in a ball talking like nothing's wrong at all