Poetry: Arthouse Movies
By Nic Custer Jan 2010
Your body is a gallery.
Let me walk your halls.
Your body is a gallery,
let me paint the walls
Wood frames the artwork
of your eyes — Sloshes of
golden sunset lashes
burn fields of mascara, wheat
crashing as you cry.
Your body is a gallery,
i need a tour.
I set up exhibits and
open the
velvet ropes thongs
to view your brilliance,
as you unveil
the sunrise of such deep thought.
Your body is a gallery,
and i want to curate you.
But i could wait for the
final show of your beauty.
If you could wait for my talent
to grow, so that
my skills could
describe you
with some proficiency.
Your body is a gallery,
and i'm just an artist looking
for space to hang
my head.
(From the collection Delirium, Delirium.)
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