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Enter Poem or Quote (Required)Required Clouds spiral down and curl around to touch me —not those western drizzle shrouds baring a soul of misery mizzle ...though I adore a good wallow in sorrow —no these clouds come from yonder bluebird wilds white cirrus wispy and whispery dance around me I steal one to wear across my shoulders like a platinum’s blonde’s faux stole they come to me like papier-mâché angels —no no that’s too cliché… and passé for I’m far beyond the Godly touch of angels… hmm.. they come to me like a lover —no too easy …like a heartbreak-er lover! yah I’ll go with that and get a taboo tattoo of his name anyway the clouds they find me where I stand dissatisfied with being satisfied the result of my cool cat face seduction I wear a crimson bee balm boutonniere display it on my plunging V lapel but it attracts wasps instead of honey bees; I find danger brings a secret pleasure to my displeasure my leopard print pants (red sky colored) stirs sir knight with his bridled gaze and walking stick he watches my next move on the chessboard tries to guess my breezy strategy my hands behind my head legs crossed maybe it’s a white crested ocean I'm floating on —or wrestling with— either way I’m here to play and paint a displeased scene watercolors? they’re just transparent hues applied to my white background depending on the mood of my mood ring —but when acrylics bleed it’s harder to see the scene colors escape their space creating a slurry of what is where where is when when is why and why don’t know why ..what?! but I know how blurry lines take on a life of their own and shapes a new fate from ‘no gesso’ mistakes I could switch my style to snarly tiger stripes today and gladly take that horse-headed knight down that wooden old guard has new orders he’s suspicious of me scrutinizes me but only half as much as I’m used to his right hand on his monocle —the other eye blind just beyond the reach of his walking stick I free my torso of its purple grapevine corset uncinching my fake waisted form —I muse if my time as a wastrel was wasted or invested oh …the monocle is telescoping me again I shimmy lose my butterfly wings slap him as I flap them and fly away it’s hard to know if I’m still beautiful or if I’m just broken —either way I embrace the rainy side of the rainbow happily discontent
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