Untitled, 2001
What a tragedy. What a tragedy.
A painting on the wall and an actor on the stage.
Painted in red, draped in white, blinding, bleeding.
One, two, three, many, many layers of paint.
Four, five, six, powder, cameras, special effects.
Frozen over, the glass cracks, and though it looked full, there was nothing inside.
No wine to pour. No blood to bleed.
Carmine red paint, is it oil or acrylic?
Seven, eight, nine hundred brush strokes.
The canvas is still, beneath it all, empty.
The curtain falls, the curtain falls, the curtain never falls.
The small audience watches intently, unblinking, a loving gaze.
Roses, a mirror, starry night.
Look, the stars are shining.
The light reflected by the glass flickers, it changes, always.
A liquid, a liquid, what form shall it take?
A painting, a painting, will it ever earn your gaze?
A melody, barely there, incoherent and impossible to make.
Mineral water mixing with wine.
Pearly white cotton and red acrylic paint.
This gallery is empty, save for I.
High up on the stage, the lights shine.
If the curtain doesn't fall
my hands will drag them down.