Fragments of a faded afternoon

Fighting, or something more carnal?
Buttocks and biceps, hip to hip
Blood oozes through carbonate

Reprobate. Did Jacob ever overcome
that cuddled struggle? Do Not Touch. My fingers
On big bold toes – Man is cured

Afternoons and after all, there’s always analogue.
Clocks melt. Pocket chocolate. Hot under this collar
We strip before a nude

God dispenses gifts. A Journeyman doled talents.
Lifelike flesh putrid green. Clash of gash red smile.
Wasting away, waste of paint and Peeping Toms

Moving. keep moving lest we petrify
Statues advance, out of the eye’s corner.
A watchman. Tick-tock. Do Not Touch

Electric wires nerve taut. Sensitive to stealth
Keeps collection in connection. No mycorrhizal miracle
Fungi give roots some reason to relate

Natural hangings, landscapes, a lizard peeps
From tulips. Life’s never still. Sling expectation
Slop canvas, drip by drop, paint finds form.

Tea. And coffee summons to the café. All munch
On musings. “Next visit I’ll show you the Rembrandts”
“That’s nice”. I hear the Chiaroscuro master chuckle.

For my MTB Critique & Craft prompt “Picking up some pieces” we are writing a piece of Modernist Fragment Poetry – either several numbered stanzas with disjointed relationship, or a poem where the whole is in fragments, as here on a Tate gallery visit