i live in a box of paints
© Kennedy James. All rights reserved.
i live in a box of paints
nowhere near the mauves, magentas, or pinks
and certainly not cosied up to
the yellows — not even the ones
that pretend to flame into orange
i'm more inclined to linger
over here
by the blues
swimming between the tropical
cerulean smudges and the heavier
glops of navy
and most always stopping
just short of
black ...
at times
i furrow into the profundity
of red
something of an excess
i suspect
but only
when i feel a little wild
and reckless
or full of a passionate desire
to brush
bold and careless strokes
across a human canvas
leaving behind a small trail
of seminal inspiration
but little in the way
of art ...
when winter comes
and the world adopts
a cosmological white glacé
over twisted
half-hidden shapes
of brown and gray
i sometimes dream
of a pastiche of greens
from jaundiced lime to the darkest emerald
a spectrum
defining the sleeping bud
of springtime
that strange season
of beguiling tinctures
soothing the chill
of empty spaces
with a smear of hopefulness
never quite completely forgotten ...
i live in a box of paints
hidden from view
by the tortured stack
of half-finished
portraits of you
awaiting
a second inspiration
or some returning regard
for what was there
for a moment
before my eyes faltered
and the perfect
combination of colours
bled to mud
and the beauty
of bringing the inside of love
outside from the closed closet
of mere imagining
disappeared
completely ...
nowhere near the mauves, magentas, or pinks
and certainly not cosied up to
the yellows — not even the ones
that pretend to flame into orange
i'm more inclined to linger
over here
by the blues
swimming between the tropical
cerulean smudges and the heavier
glops of navy
and most always stopping
just short of
black ...
at times
i furrow into the profundity
of red
something of an excess
i suspect
but only
when i feel a little wild
and reckless
or full of a passionate desire
to brush
bold and careless strokes
across a human canvas
leaving behind a small trail
of seminal inspiration
but little in the way
of art ...
when winter comes
and the world adopts
a cosmological white glacé
over twisted
half-hidden shapes
of brown and gray
i sometimes dream
of a pastiche of greens
from jaundiced lime to the darkest emerald
a spectrum
defining the sleeping bud
of springtime
that strange season
of beguiling tinctures
soothing the chill
of empty spaces
with a smear of hopefulness
never quite completely forgotten ...
i live in a box of paints
hidden from view
by the tortured stack
of half-finished
portraits of you
awaiting
a second inspiration
or some returning regard
for what was there
for a moment
before my eyes faltered
and the perfect
combination of colours
bled to mud
and the beauty
of bringing the inside of love
outside from the closed closet
of mere imagining
disappeared
completely ...
© Kennedy James. All rights reserved.