portion of the artwork for Michael Dwayne Smith's poetry

The Reformed Painter Poet Fails an Imaginary Artist
Michael Dwayne Smith

There is a signal in this literary work being
read at a local anesthetic room,
an observance.

Brutal paintings, Kahlo knock offs,
pained expression and approval, exhalation
sign my last dramatic work.

This poem whistles through the retrospective,
where canvas hangs like convicted innocence
on local smile and applause.

Perhaps She arrives in a velvet dress,
pink and red dahlias opening Her black hair,
astride a magnificent Galiceño.

North American countries are a smooth put-on,
symphony and bloody flowers,
chain passage, rainbowed chemical hair, but

in the poem, She moves to an American state,
screws post-punk vegans who attend events,
smears the gallery.

She enquires in High German, with a glance.
Would you cut back your hair in my
unaccompanied elegy?


I recite my variations of Yes, but who will realize?
Affirmative, I will,
if I can defer to infer what I mean to impart.

She claims I’m about to break through.
She forces hindquarters through the argonon
troops, Her exhibition exhausted.

Artistic constructs being susceptible to curves,
maneuvers, social groups,
we undergo glasswork music, running, surfaces

exploding, throwing punches as we walk on air.
When the lover and the supply side
agree on states of change

gasoline and downhearted respiration decay
the breeze. Like days of Coyoacán
when I knew She was bloodless meat.

Precious doped assets of slag United States
she pulls through sutured
trees and skeletal structures into

immature dialog, open corridors, scaffolded job
sites, wherever She buys American,
states a warning, warming a globe, holy justified.

We twerps are minuscule components.
She exposes my object as a down picture of a
down picture,

measuring device making reproductions of
delinquent places, fossil fuel positions
seamed into sagas of Route 66.

Our Lady of Lady Gaga does not give away this
obloquy. She does not really ride ablaze the
equus caballus of Mexico,

nor can I change my literary composition
to what it is not. The doctor’s recusant bong
hangs along his animal skin jacket,

with its resin crown. He snaps hitch to finger,
spreads replication to record, red chemical
elements given

out in sect musical time, In the mold, my man,
thus agnizing The Beat, because he was there,
grooving public presentation lingo.

Bespeak Kerouac, and Ginsberg, generous
raptus ne plus ultras, removed,
dispiritedly latticelike, with

O however can I go through what I can’t
rap about?
and some conversation about how
I do not need the Self,

but the verandah now is bereft of poets or Fridas,
unopen even to Diegos, and we are lightly
inactive, everyone eternal, absent,

environmental culminations of boozing, and as
for me, I’m chasing words—where the horses
in Her paintings could have been.

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FRiGG: A Magazine of Fiction and Poetry | Issue 41 | Summer 2013