Ghosts at the Museum

GHOSTS at the MUSEUM

she wanders and wonders

a face-off with (eat your vegetables) even Landscapes

but especially portraits, if decked in vegetation

and when not at female nudes [which were numerous in any collection]

face off with the stars

knowing that you are stardust

[is that just a metaphor or is that literally true?] so many women at mirrors squeezing their tits. Is that the male regard, or is that me too wanting to look in the glass?

the soles of her casuals tap her onward to more religious themes and odalisques intertwined like in a glorified granite warehouse, still so much between a temple of white and a hospital setting

but ah those glorious colors

how funny, Averroes is trampled underneath the feet of Aquinas and the Holy Trinity looks on in delight? yeah, gold...catastrophe of gold

[Formation]

but this one makes me serious

Magnificat

after a crown of thorns in perfect pyramidal position

and so, a great Slit, aureoled, a MANDORLA

whirling cherubim and seraphim orbit in oblong

faces featured in layers of paste

pasty painted faces dust to dust

Artemisian delights

were seen under the covers shaded in Venetian reds [where the pomegranate shows forth its hidden rubies] in a color climax

seen from under the covers

or scenes from the chapel

what a weird mix

so many women in mirrors or is that the male regard

Venetian Silks and all the vanities

and whatever you feather

Artemisian delights

bare conglomerate of stardust masses

under the breath of sigh at every instance of momentary and involuntary boredom in

galleries, endless galleries of statues overvaulted and shown in volumes of electric lighting

the heads of dead gods fished off the mantle-pieces of tombs and the collections of dead dynasties on the Mantle-Piece of the Prehistoric History House

the limitless corridors of this converted palace, an anti-monument to the history of monarchy IMAGE BURN beginning to affect the brain with what is

a loving eulogy or a sniveling panegyric? who can tell

the marble eyes of the History House, where we see with a feeling eye

burning into the mind like the residual flash of light

slithering from gallery to gallery like the noble parasites themselves

and we feel with a seeing hand picture overlap

image burn, the mind is revolving

we feed on their refuse—me too, I’m just an entertainer a songstress someone you keep in a cage and make it feel pretty so it keeps chirping at you

but Dead Nature is Still Life

that my eyes are feeding upon like famished worms—

makes me hungry, it should make you hungry too, you freak who follows me when I want to retreat into my own thoughts

Table-spreads abstracted from living LA NATURE MORTE

such a deadly silence reigns where we want to sit down to those oysters and pick up that glass of wine and drink it

painted so carefully you would have thought it was real

reams of music notes in partition

cranium gapes at grapes in a festive reminder of mortality on the table:

reiterated picnic pictures

you know, just the dry vanity of a whole human skull, not so brainy any more, is it, with all those books around, and sheet music on an empty mind, no tongue or lips to eat the fruits and figs, no throat to swallow that wine:

even with flesh, it’s all a painted picture anyway

reminder of vanity by mortality training by morality snapshots

and

behind her

blank marble eyes, neither living nor dead, you could feel [not] staring

all this perfection: [just?] dust in the wind

but how solid it all seems, here on the peaks, where all is stone and color

like a summit of human endeavor in a vast nerve-bundle

through the endless crowds of marble eyes, ceramic geometry, and painted beasts

painted so carefully you would have thought that it was real

amid a jumble of alabaster boobs,

fig-leafed penis envious of Jesus

on the cross and in the cradle was this a palace of blasphemy?

NATURE

a mangy dog creatures laps at the leavings of a beggar-girl’s feast of oysters, melon, and black bread [for our Food Renaissance now a baroque Spaniard’s homeless feast seems a delight]

painted beasts and painted breasts

BONFIRE OF THE VANITIES he said everything was dust in the wind

and to think of how many were burned

makes you think

it was this Ghost of this Goddess pinching her own nipple in the bathtub (of a Renaissance Lady)

in the mirror

something to see

a mysterious smiles peeks out the corner of it

finding forms

fumbling and grotesque: the famed Rebirth—groping towards 3-Dimensional forms from flatness

the static spaces of porcelain dolls

eking out the arrangement, as if in boxes, on a stage

egg-painting the shell of computer graphics (precursor)

shaded modeling

with or without the grid

deepens the geometric perspective

as the box for a stage

even the museum galleries themselves

mausoleum of living idols

an abyss of painted folds and golden frames in ordered columns

revealing thigh and breast and all from under the covers and behind locked doors, always an oblique smile

through the magic mirror

to the fairest of the fair

in the countless reflection of a glorious Color Climax, expanding the bounds of all rococo misunderstood unfolds

unending repetition [if not unending, just indefinite]

of the graces

entombed in marble and steel

electrically lit in Climax Colors

or only the color of Earth

free-standing

behind glass

manifold mannequin

muses the Flesh in Stone and Paint

from the pit and blush with blood

bloom in beauty

conclusion on the temporal improvement in graphics: [Nietzsche sayz]

blue and green are the colors in nature’s palate

that are the least human

Another excerpt: