Very Bad Poetry

To Lift a Painting – fugue in D minor.




To lift a painting, to feel
it's weight. To recognize beauty
it's cost not in sweat or tears, rather
the commerce it produces to the outside
hot dog vendor, the quiet maintenance
man listening to Led Zeppelin on ear phones
waxing museum hall under the close scrutiny of ages,
and ageless beauty collides with ageless crime;
video transcribed.

To lift a painting, armed guards
conceal boredom with counting pensions,
taking note of time: unconscious requiem. Masters
watch the ballet of the curious, the furious, and
the lover's gawking at true love of Samson's decline.
A hot dog is purchased, the steam rising, the mustard cutting,
the gloved hand holds the hot dog; the new owner now watchful
of much watched museum, takes a bite, ahh yes, good. Hawk's
lurking infamy eye's nestled pigeon.

The last one gone, doors locked, paintings display artfully done in eerie shadow,
hot dog vendor closes and pushes home. The hummmm of the floor cleaner
lost
in a symphony of Zeppelin, ears masked of realities hushed din. Guards
“Goodnighting” and weary smiles mask hidden dreams as the walk home
carries it's own rehearsed requiem. But first a stop at Joe's before the ending sigh.
And the Prelude is done off to the Fugue we fly.

To lift a painting on shined halls an empty corridors He relies,
His art depends on timing, stealth, nerves and eye. The Masters
watch under shadowy light an infusion of Hamlet's inner plight.
Gone
spectors of red beams and eyes for screens, gone are lights of generators replacing pulsing streams.
Gone are the claxons of the newest century warnings; all is silent by the muses
dark breath: sketching timing, stealth, nerves, and eye. The plan won! Ohh but not yet...
Silence and darkness in this night watch goes He flies to a little Dutch girl with a Pearl earring...
And the pigeon is met.

Up through escape upon scaffold and David's shoulder He climbs of untimely, fortunate construct
and messy lime. The maze of armed retired bellies, torches slicing dark,
and rattled keys dance beneath Him as Maintenance Man hides in fright
behind his cart, hummming machine silent,
the band plays on in those ears - ducking realities.

Gone
the many lights and tape of caution,
gone are question after same question,
gone is the night,
gone is the sleep,
promised,
gone is the coffee,
gone is the crying of overly dramatic curator,
gone are the batteries to play Zeppelin,
gone is that Golden eye of the youthful Dutch girl.
Not a dirty feather nor a foot print left
in messy lime some one cleaned.
Maid everything... Gone...Disappeared.

But last of the Detectives tired but bright
She spies a half eaten dog in dawns early light.
Carefully she puts dog in evidence bag.
Hot dog vendor slowly pushing cart dreaming of Golden Jag,
is spotted by bright Detective and she smiles...

The fugue inverts an a painting is lifted upon He, Frenchman,
the bright Detective visited. Suspected by DNA on a half-eaten
dog, an unangry cool suspect answers question after same question,
Done is Detective and He,
No evidence murmured,
but an uneaten dog and a past
forgotten, paid for, and never breached,
a clean man of much repentance, goes to teach.

The painting lifted, the air now heavy with heat,
the museum tourists no longer on hot citied street,
away from museum on sand dusted oceans beat,
the museum is done, empty, now for the occasional lovers
who stroll. The lights dim, the humming done, the floors
done faster the “Goodnighting” even faster.


Bags are checked but no longer, “Still is a summer day to get after!”
The museum closed and locked... underneath a janitors cart
she waits in perfect time and stealth and nerve and eye.
Put in a bag that will never be checked, “Let's go to Joe's to commiserate!”
What too?
Lost Youth?
Lost Art?
That too!

The painting lifted, a sick girl cries, a doctor goes by.
Money is spent, an envelope filled, medicine for a lost girl
on the hospital pillow,
she gets well...
from the help of another little lost girl.

A bright Detective, centered and sweet,
walking down the long Hospital Hall,
hearing of a certain single father's fortunate miraculous call.

The plan won! Ohhh but not yet...for something centered and sweet.

The End.


-Mark O'Flahavan

mark oflahavan has published another poem since joining on 30/11/99. Read more of mark's terrible poetry at the anthology. Here are three of mark's latest works: