Exhibition

The gallery is vibrant.

I know this because I’ve been told.

They said the subjects of the paintings

are brimming with colour,

rainbows practically spilling out of the frames and onto the smooth panelled floor.

I see only the colour around the subject.

Blocked from seeping in,

as though simply touching those sketchy outlines

will leech away the pigment

until nothing is left.

They told me I see the world this way because I’m depressed,

that the chemistry of my brain has gone awry

and muddies everything I lay eyes on.

I don’t think they’re wrong,

but I also think that maybe

I’ve just developed the superpower

to see another dimension.

On making good art

It lets me examine it

smoothing my hands along its contours

gazing into each space, searching those pocket spaces

for wisps of goodness

where I can spend time being myself.

 

Sometimes

it shows me my mistakes

sometimes

I can see future pictures of wells

where I jump into the unknown.

 

If I walk past it in the morning

I see one thing.

If I walk past it a minute later,

I see another.

 

If I stumble to down to my hands and knees,

not looking at it directly but from the corner of my eye

I can see every part of it, pixel fine.

Or nothing at all.

A display at the exhibit

Twist it good,

squeeze the dye from the rag

and paint broad strokes

over their eyes.

 

Tease them, taint them,

make them crave

the taste of inking,

have them savour

the sharpness on their tongues.

 

Tempt them with

cherry-laced vinegar

that leaves a permanent stain

on white memory,

and finally gather

their multi-coloured tears.