"pencilled" poems - Hello Poetry

Sun slits in through slats of kitchen window blinds and she is alone. The art major is cooking spaghetti, pretending her thrifted T-shirt bearing a cotton copy of Campbell's Soup Cans is not stained with tears and blood. Oh, but that's hysterics and hyperbole; art has a tendency of making its worshippers melodramatic...no? The blood is only tomato sauce and the tears... well, what are tears but water and salt? After all, dramatizing the mundane is just one awkward shade of artistic temperament. Visualizing life through a heavy silk screen. The art major sighs and stirs. The spaghetti is redder and redder as she cooks. Just as her paintings bleed more blood as she dangles a brush over them - the teary-eyed watercolours. The art major has decided that drawing out extremities of colour might transform her own life into a pop of a Warhol painting. The art major sighs and stirs. She thinks, tries to think in technicolour. Today's thought-pencilled thesis concludes (like a brush stroke of uncertain finality) that love is the red of tomato soup cans. Anger is the boil, passion is the gulp, danger, caution, warning, the hot breaths, fleeting warmths, the burn and sweet and tang. She looks down at the scarlet of Warhol's soup cans, blooming in worn out cotton on her chest. It might as well be blood, she thinks. It is, it is, it is. Blood red love - tomato soup cans. Sun sets in slits through kitchen window blinds and she is still alone. The art major sighs and stirs. The spaghetti is ready.

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Aug 2, 2015

Aug 2, 2015 at 6:41 AM UTC

vamika

Warhol

Sun slits in through slats of kitchen window blinds and she is alone. The art major is cooking spaghetti, pretending her thrifted T-shirt bearing a cotton copy of Campbell's Soup Cans is not stained with tears and blood. Oh, but that's hysterics and hyperbole; art has a tendency of making its worshippers melodramatic...no? The blood is only tomato sauce and the tears... well, what are tears but water and salt? After all, dramatizing the mundane is just one awkward shade of artistic temperament. Visualizing life through a heavy silk screen. The art major sighs and stirs. The spaghetti is redder and redder as she cooks. Just as her paintings bleed more blood as she dangles a brush over them - the teary-eyed watercolours. The art major has decided that drawing out extremities of colour might transform her own life into a pop of a Warhol painting. The art major sighs and stirs. She thinks, tries to think in technicolour. Today's thought-pencilled thesis concludes (like a brush stroke of uncertain finality) that love is the red of tomato soup cans. Anger is the boil, passion is the gulp, danger, caution, warning, the hot breaths, fleeting warmths, the burn and sweet and tang. She looks down at the scarlet of Warhol's soup cans, blooming in worn out cotton on her chest. It might as well be blood, she thinks. It is, it is, it is. Blood red love - tomato soup cans. Sun sets in slits through kitchen window blinds and she is still alone. The art major sighs and stirs. The spaghetti is ready.