Curating

EvilToasterElf

I trace the lines across the canvas
the paint that charges like bleeding cavalry
stomping a rhythm of waves
that flows like matchstick ships from empty
absinthe bottles

and art feels like a raft, strapped together
from the driftwood of the plane wreck
in the maternity ward, or for some the
back of a cab filled with heavy breathing
and somber break lights

and I wonder what it would feel like born
into black leather, umbilical cords sliced
with a box cutter, today’s manger is
driven by a bearded Muslim at 55 miles an hour
down Broadway to the pier because

three wise men no longer appear to the chosen,
we settle for the flame in the right hand of
an oxidized lady, and a face incapable of a smile

A waterfall of dust pours into this museum,
a mind muzzle, a shortness of breath,
it is a house without a furnace, beauty without
inspiration, the last charge of the art brigade

fell into the trap of the curator

FinsburyParkCarrots

This is perhaps unusual advice to read on an internet poetry forum, where everyone is looking for minimalistic, punchy and pithy verse, but I think this could work as a longer poem.

EvilToasterElf

FinsburyParkCarrots wrote:

This is perhaps unusual advice to read on an internet poetry forum, where everyone is looking for minimalistic, punchy and pithy verse, but I think this could work as a longer poem.

It's still too scatterbrained, I always have more trouble when starting with an image - this poem doesn't know where it wants to lead me yet, but I will take you advice and try to ramble on as it were, I think it's got some potential