Paint Me Like One of Your French Girls

I go to the art gallery:

wooden floors with a clean sheen

perfect frames at perfect angles…

I wonder what the artists would say?

Abstract speaks for itself:

‘I was not born, bold and brash,

pulsating and splashed and splurged,

spunked out and blown

to be thrown into this.

This. This. What is this?

A fucking frame that cost more

than the name of the man who made me

at the time he made me.

Created me.

With passion and heart.

They have boxed me in.

Entrapped me.


Help. Help me.

Embrace me.

See past the frame.

These lines could go on forever.

I could wrap around you,

caress you with colours

and treat you like a Queen

at a Royal Variety Performance.

We would laugh

and dance like a Paula Abdul music video

I’ll be the cat and the cream

and you’ll be the Queen.

You be the boat and I’ll be the stream.

Run with me.

Run with me.

Colours can clash and splash

splatter and explode

implode and  impale

on an earth shattering scale.

Free me.

Release me.

Tina sang ‘I’m in chains’,

but I want to stain you

and train you

and of course take the blame.

Slapdash? Sure.

Grab a brush, grab a saw,

release me amore.

I need to express myself

it’s in vogue to fall short

but run with it.

Work with it.

Race with it.

Be true.

I want the world to have colour

and I want to paint you.’

I see the swirls and the shades,

the lines that cascade,

the thickened texture

and emboldened sheen.

The frame, it blinds.

It shadows and hides

what needs to be seen.

The curve of a wink

in the signature blinks.

I look at it and think:

I need to get laid.


One response to “Paint Me Like One of Your French Girls

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