On the exhibit,
following the gold frame
to avoid the expressions and
find companions,
making eyes at the corners.
Much familiar,
aside the coroners and mourners,
with naught but conviction around lies;
there is little beauty in these bootlegs.
Better yet, you watch the floor
and feel to avoid dust,
to feel anything here.
You remember why you came here;
it was those pages
and those stories and those worlds
where art was in nature and you could do anything.
La-li-lie, la-la-lie-lie
The little man said
he walked o'er hills
and buried the tree,
he is just what he claims to be;
The painting with a new face.
Branded and golden.















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