Art
It Was Art
Abstract and alcohol fueled.
Liquid paint splattered,
graffiti covered and dangerous.
Surreal.
Savage Beauty of
Alexander McQueen,
spray paint guns
aimed at a white dress.
Fragile.
An evening gown
made of peonies and roses,
disintegrating.
You say don’t write about life,
write about art.
Was it not art?
The finger painting of my hair,
the pigment of your eyes,
the sculpture of my thigh.
You say don’t write about life,
write about art.
Was it not art?
My solo performance
when you left me nude
in the gallery
covered in snow?
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