Nevermore Art

I would adore art—her texture her dejection as grandiose rejection. her breastbone our rib as time scatters or aches proving its dilemma. I’d confess to art, those dreary/muddy secrets, where art would laugh at my scandal. those portraitures those ape-manners or solicited by guilt; so crooked with feathers such winds so together while a gust of fortune is spirit. such candledust or candlenuts or some eucalyptus forest; as garments are older while music is our ears if but to elope with art. (it seems unlikely this chemistry of episodes for it was once so glorious: such godship indeed to flourish as one reminds of the great travesty.) I would adore art—the salvo by senses or such sweet endurance—as attacked but survived as religious but also secular where great lieutenants fought by wars.     art is dark concrete or virescent skies or a pathetic creature so lost in wilderness aloof to contact where one loses existence for her. so toilsome as to sit knowing I have disappointed art. those zinnias mourning the garden fraught by sorrow, I was silent, soft tears. the tidings of conviction those rules we nurture or the arts we lose.     such caprice in us where some might linger but life is complication: the fields are too small, wherefore, art is angry, or traffic is too heavy those walls of creation.     so filled by troubles such intimate predicaments while it becomes another’s satisfaction.     it’s marvelous those days. we languid from love. such a battle to die! as pictureless entities or roaming cities while it was just too exciting; for art is daring, or collaborative, or hickory sauce: such lunaria agonies, to have carried eternity—vowing as nevermore art.