Outside Saatchi 2

If my Art is here
Why is yours mis-matched leg-
warmers, honey?

These --- are my words

Words on bone owning that bone that bone is my own, words of bone words as stone, stoney bones stoned bones are my words.

You,
are the clouds
when passions rage and I see mist in
my
fall

You are reflections, waving from
non-existent windows
and I break for you.

Neither within nor without;
neither breathless nor heady;

there the dance is,
not still or even skipping.

Try not to fix it,
to where the heartbeats are counting.
Except for that tangent, the perfect solace of stillness

There might be no dance. Oh! But,
there is only the dance.

While The Expressionism floats

Clutching for the one that can steady
Your wobbling.
You are frozen a bit, with each beat of your blackened honesty
making the churns come.

So you do it;

you pop the bubbles and recreate your tundra
to find the letters that show how your heart feels, what those worried eyes
are trying to say.
And then you're not sure
sure
not sure if you want it to go
but you Man Up and do it;
and while your expressionism floats, you're left thinking
"Oh Shit", until the reply comes.

Though all I could see was he,
Not fresh and straight,
but dirty in the foam; and she,
Love, who'd pulled you from
There, and into the running.

lost-in-a-bit-of-Russian-translation
I was asked
What do you mean about This Music?

with a smile then

What do you mean about This Music?

with a raise
and a crackle of flash
(think sparks here)
she'd caught that slightly
confused
I-am-European-too, but glazed,
face,
forever amused on her camera lens