13 Sep 2013

The flux of white butterflies


He said the world was full of white butterflies
And footsteps of blood
He said
Bigger did not mean better and that
White walls and obvious juxtaposition
Though useful to the artist,
Should never be considered art

He said we were never meant to live beneath the sun
But rather, burrow deep within ourselves
Consume and ultimately become eternal fire

He said the world was full of words
Masquerading as images and vice versa
That
Some of those words were made up of colours
Only ever seen at the
Heart of an exploding star
And some images, seemingly deep
Were in reality wading pools of bleach
On white canvas

Of all these things, all I could find to
Convince myself anything was true -
Were the butterflies in the sky and
Blood red tracks
On the staggered concrete behind me.