Contemplating people, I have observed
the vast divide between the clean and those
who choose to remain unwashed. A child
will feed pigeons, happy in the dust.
A bull pierced through the shoulder sinks
to his haunches. Never was red so dull.
The female form excites the muse
but all becomes ordinary in reduction.
A platter. A bowl. A long-legged table.
While masculinity resolves its headache
in paunch and penis. Hills rolling unregarded.
A study in plane and colour is as academic
as mud and blood, piss and undressed lamb.
We have eyes that slide past drooping nose,
and oh so many teeth. Sharp. White.
She scrubs herself in a blue room.
He plays ball on the beach. Lover of sand.
Here at last, a man with a guitar. To wake me
in my grave. Carve your tune in basalt.
Singing the seas to a crying woman.
Where she reclines nude under stars.
We cringe. We crawl. We crow.
So little time to find the soap … Rinse
the sullen crimson tide from your fingers.
Ponder the inevitable fall. Cracked heels.
Rise from bed. This life. Uncovered. Art.
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Charlotte Perkins Gilman Poems
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William Blake Poems
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