W.W. Cubism – Poem

W.W. Cubism and photograph by: Erickson

Smoke 
            Whispered 
                       Through 
the tongue. 

Logical v i b r a t i o n s whittle 
The bones, sharpening them 
To the c  ur   ve   d 
sticks 
of harps and bows. 

Suggestions bubble violent. 
Among the music, 
Language is 
condensed, 
like milk 

In     rotten,        dripping 
     a            rust                 can.

--------Sh—ou-----t------s.
--- D------em---------a-------nd----------s. 


Eyes coated in film.				( filmed- f i l m )
I touch the same color yellow, inflamed and roaring. 
Globs of paint, chirping off the chin. 	( Pieces paint a petal on the concrete )
A rose through human tinted glasses.          ( The inhumane feat )

- 

Speech bubbles with violent suggestions
become
Ration- 			(rations, rats in nations)
        ale preserved in war. 
You do not hear the cries of history, 
Upon        opening          a             book. 
So how do I write the words…
For them to SCREAM? 

We have fainted in a garden,
In the midst of b
a
t tl                 e. Fallen into pools of yellow paint.
Weapons of doubt equipped to soldiers and artists,

A hand slowly sways, lifted off the playing field.
This is our natural inclination.
Old habits of Self-preservation 
Killing me. 
So remember what the rose means. 
I must remember what the rose means.

Heart beats to the drums. 
A final march. 
A target, a speech,
A ticket, a screen,
A coin, a heart, 
A word, a way –
I shoot. 

And am taken away 
From my body.

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