A young woman, her form
still bearing a mirage of beauty.
In her detail she decays
closer still, a beauty returns
as a micro-delicacy.
Her charm dips in and out
like a swan through the bodies spoilage.
Da Vinci and his artist acolytes,
those red-handed anatomists,
all owe her rent.
The swan should be redrawn,
blood-money paid
with those same blunt tools
they broke into her with.
Categories:
anatomists, poetry,
Form: Free verse
over & again
i sketch the anatomists' heart
on clean white paper
i wonder if he minds me borrowing it,
if he minds anything at all,
peaceful & passed out on the damp floor.
three hearts-
four
& the pen drips red
blink, shake off the manifestations
blue, it's only blue
it's only ever been blue.
i choose another paper virgin,
a perfect three-hole-punched sacrifice
the fatal flaw made visual
what more perfect
than this imperfection
Categories:
anatomists, art, imagination, inspirational, life,
Form: Blank verse