The Artist

During the years of gesture-drawing
And the study of anatomy
An artist learns to see the human body
As a mere sequence of volumes and hues
The concept goes to heaven,
Shape and form go to hell, and soon
The pencils cease to be a tribe and are tools;
Citizens in a military occupation, their bodies worn down,
Their colours siezed

One day, aching to be his winemad self again
The artist cuts a pomegranate from the tree to capture the concept of Red
And sits and stands immersed in still life until it is no more Red
Soon he is coating roses in wax,
And embalming flowers in glycerin
The battle for Red has begun.

Rome and romance, rustic rescue, Renaissance-red, Red revolution!
"Bloom, blush, bleed, burn!" he implores the world,
"I need more Red!"
The scarlet macaw next finds himself stuffed for study
And by the time the artist has moved on to portraits,
No one has seen the signs

The harlot, with rubies at her throat
Teenage Riding Hood and her Robin Hood
A gallant bullfighter and eventually
Even eight-year-old princess Rosehip lies preserved
& the Queen of Hearts has no more heir
Firefighters behead the artist in justice
And the vultures all agree that he tasted like taupe