Elan Mudrow


What are these layers of paint?

I see how the elements have

Beat them, curled them, fragmented

Old coats of kaleidoscope consciousness

Revealed, bare for the peeling back

My fingers are clumsy in the art

Tools, ancient, shaped by primal

Prayers to mechanisms buried

Budge-Less, bulks of flesh and fool

Oh her hair, her hair, I swear

Is layered gold, sweet scent

Of Well placed sweat utensils

In the cabinet, sees daylight

When dinner’s colors are spread

Painted on china, forks revealed.

My curves are paint parched

Hips chipped, shaven legs frayed

Power spray painter of layers

Of years, coats my tongue

Tasteless, chocolate blood palette

Lays down, angst uncontrollable

Oh his chest, his chest, Aromal

I have smelt the thinner, sacred air

It only proves—I’m clutching

The Sistine Chapel cartoon character

He painted his lips, one day

Toes, pinky, nails and nonesuch

Eye shadow lurking, losing his

Reflecting globes of…

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