Thursday, November 19, 2015

At a Loft Party in Soho, I stare at a David Hockney Painting

Russian bath house, sophisticated women bathe men, egg yolk and water
Black Elvis holds court at a country club playing guitar, country blues
Where would he call home, Washington Square or streets of Nashville
At night he dreams of Las Vegas, classical Mona Lisa and her muse Matteo
Dance to Joy Division. Sweat seeps into her skin as she forms a pirouette
Wonder why there’s no money in art, would he be curator at a gallery
Round up no name graffiti artists put them up in Chelsea’s Marlborough
Blood he had shed, was it for fame, uploading street fights on social media
As if he were soldier who went to war, spraying machine guns, tagging names
Brooklyn born black painters who vacation Germany, paint still-life in the Bronx
Open a bottle of champagne; celebrate celebrity skin, all who call yourself art stars
Began with palette knife, now in the afterlife, where do you find your significant other
Do you match at, what would be your opening line, Shakespeare sonnet
Or let the words flow like an MC Snoop Dog, imitating style and vice of Viggo Schnabel
Cougars waltz in like German Kokoshckas dressed in bathing suits sipping Manhattans
A black Jew in a Wes Anderson film, if not African American punk in a Jim Jarmusch
Speak a mother tongue, Mandarin, read David Foster Wallace in a Hong Kong hotel
Gather thoughts as Buddhist, at night crown yourself Catholic, leave behind a cross
What crimes have you committed, do you project as a Hollywood leading man
Or inject cum into condoms? Making love in the ghetto would leave a man breathless
She stops to post status on Facebook. What would she say, was it good for her
As it was for you, maybe whisper philosophy in her ear, turn her into sex muse

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