A poem about a painting, or a painting about a poem
I've made a man
(don't tell me you know)
a swishing man of black and white
I've traced his lines
and inked his heart
my baby Frankenstein
(or Galatea)
he sits still
androgynous and desiring
or perhaps I only imagine that
my fingers adding wanting
where they added
(the line of a jaw)
(the curve of a throat)
skin
I've made a man
(don't tell me you know)
with flesh like bone
and lined in black
and looking
I see he doesn't move
doesn't speak
doesn't blink
I hear
(in the back of my mind)
a screaming
I call him
December Man
(don't tell me you know)
a swishing man of black and white
I've traced his lines
and inked his heart
my baby Frankenstein
(or Galatea)
he sits still
androgynous and desiring
or perhaps I only imagine that
my fingers adding wanting
where they added
(the line of a jaw)
(the curve of a throat)
skin
I've made a man
(don't tell me you know)
with flesh like bone
and lined in black
and looking
I see he doesn't move
doesn't speak
doesn't blink
I hear
(in the back of my mind)
a screaming
I call him
December Man