Sun, 08/02/2015 - 21:46 -- biomage

The Old Masters paint ladies with rough horsehair brushes

and treat them with noxious turpentine.

They blow them up big and dress them in gauzes unpurchasable, silks unperishable:

Beauty (yet) Unattainable. 

Lovely Models, art indeed: Made to be admired (but from a distance).

Do. Not. Touch.

and that's "All So Nice" BUT does she breath?

the nuance of a smile formed by Muscle and elicited by Will, is

so much more satisfying a sight to behold than one rendered in static media.

This is not a critique.

this is praise.

Darling, I don't call myself an Artist,

but when we go to galleries to see the Masterpieces...

I turn around, and it's you.

it's all You.


This poem is about: 


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