Studio8 - Uniting the Arts

he's not an oil painting
my mother would say
of men who didn't look
like pretty boys

i've had oil paintings before
but they just don't fit me
because i guess i'm
a crayon kind of girl
who likes
to get her hands dirty
every so once in a while

i've never found an oil painting that i'd want.
i've checked the junk stalls at the barrowlands on a sunday
but no oil painting has ever jumped out and grabbed me.

on the way home from the barrowlands one sunday afternoon
i stopped and found my perfect oil companion:
a puddle on the tramac with an oil slicked surface,
a rainbow in a dance spiraling a paisley pattern dream,
a collaboration between sun and breeze and rain and rusted oil tank drip.

sometimes the most beautiful thing is the thing they'd never hang on a wall. sometimes it's dirt, decay, debris and death.

paint me and oil smeared rainbow in a puddle and i'd have a painting for my wall.

--
sweet poem, mj. did you ever do that thing with crayons where you'd draw thick patches of various colour and then cover it over with a coating of black paint, wait for the paint to dry and then scratch a pattern into it? because the wax from the crayon prevents the paint reaching the paper, you end up with a rainbow drawing on a black back.

I love the sweet, seemingly innocent touch of your pen, mj.

I like to look at oil paintings but I learned a long time ago not to touch them...so I look at them and touch myself instead

bennie...shread me a butterfly wing to use as a looking glass dripping purple &virginal white on pages cut of yellowed newspapers crying heavy fears of yesterdays sorrow. light me a tea candle floating 'tween rose petals moaning love & no no never leave. drip me an oil'd rainbow waxed lyrical like a symphony in black and pearl rolling on my tongue like a beautiful scream. then color me green...
(ps. thnx 4 the "sweet." answer: in primary school, i think. i forgot about that. you are a treasure chest...)

emel.scott...made me grin, you did

You're killing me here, mj, this went straight thru my brain tearing up all the cobwebs along its path. Now I'm standing here with my coffee cup in one hand and smoke in the other and my cobwebs floating in the breeze and all the spiders going wtf was that?...the spiders may not be smiling but I sure am.

no. no! don't die!!! heh. mingo...maybe time to wake up??? thanks...

he's not an oil painting
he's a boil, ain't he...

all men are boils. we all need a damn good lancing.

Ahhh to be a color in one of your paintings. You paint words and colors in a menagerie of exotic wonders.

John

panta...not this one...

bennie...

john...you are the yellow, my friend!

http://imagecache2.allposters.com/

well, they ain't blue jeans, but it's oil
and he's pretty

that's what i'm sayin...

i was thinking about a comment
but was sufficiently confused

but then i realized it was
just the way i was feeling

so i wrote a poem

and kept it in a place
where even i couldn't remember
so
and i kept writing more poetry
as if saying to myself if i kept writing
i would someday remember
where the poem i lost
was located

isn't that what love does to us

????????

sweetwater...we send ourselves little messages in our own poetry and sometimes we don't even know it