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