the trouble with evolution (excerpt)

 

predictable as the rising sun, each morning

her breasts and buttocks inspired the day

in the name of art, she submitted to interpretation

kneaded, shaped and manipulated, sometimes in clay,

mostly she was putty, happy in the artist’s hand

obliging in his need for detail, of her interesting parts

being pugged she declared, was an incidental reward

 

with legs straddled, across the pages of art

there was no need to be a complex read

a page to be turned, a pot boiler written

in a universal language she posed in French, German

Italian and a little bit of Dutch

but a book well read, is a book cast aside

rip it up, screw it up, turn it into papier-mâché

model her into someone new

someone all the more interesting 

 

the artist’s psycho hand, disposes of models this way

turning the monotony of the familiar

into grotesques, freak show attractions

sub-epidermal insights, dead meat

ante coital infatuation, into post coital revenge

there have been whole careers spent this way

creating effigies to sadistically use and abuse

her crime not being who he wants her to be

but being who she is