Still Life ©

I'm tired of still lifes, still births, still water, Stilton cheese;
blue veins growing moldier by the minute.

Andy Warhol got his start with stilettos.
Did you know that? I'm a treasure trove of useless knowledge.

Unfathered ideas that haven't seen the darkness of a birth canal.
Do I bore you? Are you dead or have you gone to sleep?

I have a crazy urge to paint you. Not a picture of you,
but your body itself. That will give me something to write about.

A performance work captured in squiggly lines
that are the product of movement but don't move.

Not hydrochloric acid words that burn holes in eyes,
or bubbling alka selzer words that plop plop fizz fizz away.

Words that sit there biding their time, getting moldier and moldier.
Waiting for someone who's acquired a taste for the still.

            Are you still there?