Art Imitations

Fast and jiggling with anxious

images, my profiles

are always blurred

on his

canvas

Picasso, the hand goes --

Here

And the member

Fits --

No where, suddenly I

wake up and feel weight press into me,

Why are purple bruises cased around my

Breasts, oh it’s so beautiful,

They say to Picasso

why do they think

the purple splotches are

Beautiful

they look like

mistakes.

My eyelids slowly

make friends with the painted ghosts inside

of them, interior beliefs

imposed,

painted strokes in private

corners, he laughed

when I said --

No, not there, he muses my absence.

the canvas is larger, more

ornate

a puppet twisted in knots

gets exposed

I hate what I write.

Picasso, stop

looking at my

breasts.

The crowd loves it

too, much.

Experiences

disappear into

my body

while a cracked

smile smears his canvas.

An artist adored,

a figure lost in the abstractions.

Though he sets down his palette,

my words refuse

to be erased

as easily as

fading purple

splotches