Senseless
EvilToasterElf
Posts: 1,119
Near the window, the sun crowns her
brown hair with dust. She sings now,
when his brush seems unsteady.
Why can’t you take a picture,
and paint that? She was terribly bored
of sitting. Because it’s not the same,
a response, he thought indomitable.
The blondes never complained,
but they were easily flattered.
Some of his women didn’t even stay
for him to finish the painting. Those faces
emerged like sparks, the kindling of memory.
His spare room and bedroom filled
with painted women, against the walls
and under the bed, piled like tombstones.
It was usually their idea to take off their clothes,
and he never objected. Easier to mix flesh
than figure out fabrics. Only one picture
hangs on the wall. It was his favorite.
He painted her in mid-wink.
She knew something the others didn’t.
She hung above the window where others sat,
under sunlight or stars. He played
indie rock and jazz while he painted.
He despised classical music. One day
his world of colors faded to white noise,
when he saw a new portrait of his favorite girl.
Black and white, under the bold, large font
of a headline: Slain girl found in park.
He never read the article. He kept the picture,
people look frail in black and white,
Slowly, he stopped painting during the day.
His girls became serious, wore dark make-up
and black clothes. They looked like ghosts
under the artificial moonlight on the canvas.
He wanted to paint a corpse. Maybe
it’s like painting the eyes of the blind.
He found a blind girl and took off her glasses.
Windows to the soul, he thought,
does that make the blind monsters?
He asked what she heard when he painted.
A record player, an eternal needle scratching
the surface, moments before the music.
This was painting to her, hints of static
trembling before the percussion section.
His filled his life and his easel with the blind,
For the blind, eyes are mirrors, and they
hasten to cover them, before we see ourselves
reflected. After a while, it was the smile
that captured his attention most. A blind
smile, unassuming, lips forming in a vacuum
sequestered by the imagination. The last
blind girl was painted only from the chin
to the lips. He wondered where to get her
eyes. He thought nature was geometry,
so he found a deaf girl. Her eyes beamed.
He sewed together these two girls. One
without vision, one without sound.
The Rembrandt Frankenstein, a puzzle
of flesh. After it was done, so was he.
He painted himself in the old style.
He lived through a mirror for a week
before he finished capturing himself
in glass and fabric – color and light
He took his old, dead goddess off the wall,
and placed his collage in its place,
it was the only piece with a name,
Senseless.
He only hoped if the girls ever saw it,
or touched it in some distant future place,
a synapse within them would fire,
as they realize we’d all been painted
in sinister, savage strokes, filling the void
of a womb with light, and while a blind woman
listens for footsteps a deaf girl watches
for a creeping shadow under the front door,
a man hangs his self portrait next to a woman
he can never love, and saunters outside
with a hammer, a hundred nails,
and a hundred women, ripped from their frames.
He spent the day in the city’s largest park,
nailing his women to the trees. Nobody
asks questions. Concern is the measure
of the size of a city. They must have thought
it some obscure artistic endeavor.
His women watched the sunset, unmolested
by the stir of insects. Sun streaks
scythe into their open eyes on a Saturday,
the joggers take notice of their company.
News Anchors arrive to document
the dozens of anonymous art pieces,
followed swiftly by reporters, and revelers.
Beautiful faces flooded the news stands,
the papers wanted to know the mystery
artist. Rewards were offered, velvet ropes
erected. A great many boys fell in love.
While a lonely man sat in a dark room,
thinking, when the skies opened,
and poured their turpentine, his girls
would make the most colorful puddles.
brown hair with dust. She sings now,
when his brush seems unsteady.
Why can’t you take a picture,
and paint that? She was terribly bored
of sitting. Because it’s not the same,
a response, he thought indomitable.
The blondes never complained,
but they were easily flattered.
Some of his women didn’t even stay
for him to finish the painting. Those faces
emerged like sparks, the kindling of memory.
His spare room and bedroom filled
with painted women, against the walls
and under the bed, piled like tombstones.
It was usually their idea to take off their clothes,
and he never objected. Easier to mix flesh
than figure out fabrics. Only one picture
hangs on the wall. It was his favorite.
He painted her in mid-wink.
She knew something the others didn’t.
She hung above the window where others sat,
under sunlight or stars. He played
indie rock and jazz while he painted.
He despised classical music. One day
his world of colors faded to white noise,
when he saw a new portrait of his favorite girl.
Black and white, under the bold, large font
of a headline: Slain girl found in park.
He never read the article. He kept the picture,
people look frail in black and white,
Slowly, he stopped painting during the day.
His girls became serious, wore dark make-up
and black clothes. They looked like ghosts
under the artificial moonlight on the canvas.
He wanted to paint a corpse. Maybe
it’s like painting the eyes of the blind.
He found a blind girl and took off her glasses.
Windows to the soul, he thought,
does that make the blind monsters?
He asked what she heard when he painted.
A record player, an eternal needle scratching
the surface, moments before the music.
This was painting to her, hints of static
trembling before the percussion section.
His filled his life and his easel with the blind,
For the blind, eyes are mirrors, and they
hasten to cover them, before we see ourselves
reflected. After a while, it was the smile
that captured his attention most. A blind
smile, unassuming, lips forming in a vacuum
sequestered by the imagination. The last
blind girl was painted only from the chin
to the lips. He wondered where to get her
eyes. He thought nature was geometry,
so he found a deaf girl. Her eyes beamed.
He sewed together these two girls. One
without vision, one without sound.
The Rembrandt Frankenstein, a puzzle
of flesh. After it was done, so was he.
He painted himself in the old style.
He lived through a mirror for a week
before he finished capturing himself
in glass and fabric – color and light
He took his old, dead goddess off the wall,
and placed his collage in its place,
it was the only piece with a name,
Senseless.
He only hoped if the girls ever saw it,
or touched it in some distant future place,
a synapse within them would fire,
as they realize we’d all been painted
in sinister, savage strokes, filling the void
of a womb with light, and while a blind woman
listens for footsteps a deaf girl watches
for a creeping shadow under the front door,
a man hangs his self portrait next to a woman
he can never love, and saunters outside
with a hammer, a hundred nails,
and a hundred women, ripped from their frames.
He spent the day in the city’s largest park,
nailing his women to the trees. Nobody
asks questions. Concern is the measure
of the size of a city. They must have thought
it some obscure artistic endeavor.
His women watched the sunset, unmolested
by the stir of insects. Sun streaks
scythe into their open eyes on a Saturday,
the joggers take notice of their company.
News Anchors arrive to document
the dozens of anonymous art pieces,
followed swiftly by reporters, and revelers.
Beautiful faces flooded the news stands,
the papers wanted to know the mystery
artist. Rewards were offered, velvet ropes
erected. A great many boys fell in love.
While a lonely man sat in a dark room,
thinking, when the skies opened,
and poured their turpentine, his girls
would make the most colorful puddles.
Post edited by Unknown User on
0
Comments
I will look at it more carefully when I am not at work!
There are some fantastic stanzas/verses in this poem. The ending is brilliant.
What I sense from the painter is a growing detachment from his former love, this starts upon hearing about the death of his favourite girl. I enjoyed the change in mood in the poem and then his almost surgical approach to painting, his fascination/fixation with blind girls, his senseless collage, his self portrait, and then him just being spent, over and done with it.
Only lines I'm not too keen on are:
"For the blind, eyes are mirrors, and they
hasten to cover them, before we see ourselves reflected"
"Windows to the soul, he thought,
does that make the blind monsters?"
And some favourite parts:
and while a blind woman
listens for footsteps a deaf girl watches
for a creeping shadow under the front door,
a man hangs his self portrait next to a woman
he can never love, and saunters outside
with a hammer, a hundred nails,
and a hundred women, ripped from their frames.
oh and I would love to know what she knew (the special one) that the others didn't
Great poem.
but I'll take a look again and see how I feel about them, thanks for the food for thought.
ETE
True story?
The record player thing is weird. On my deck you can hear a ghost of the coming sound just before the track begins, if it's loud enough. Maybe there's something wrong with my needle...
Interesting comparison across disciplines, though.
Do you get an entire "percussion section" outside of classical music?
you have outdone yourself!
And I won't make the same mistakes
(Because I know)
Because I know how much time that wastes
(And function)
Function is the key
Thanks for the comment, no it's pretty far from a true story, I've never painted a picture, nor do I know any blind or deaf women.
I'm pretty sure in most music percussion tends to lead the tracks, I could be wrong.
Depop thanks for the kudos sir, I look forward to reading your next one as well.
I thought you might've read about it in the paper or something.
There's a tribute to how well you tell the story!