The Students

eight.

We sit 

Idol worshipping brush strokes

Clumsily seeking 

Their hazardous forms 

With ball point pens

And worn notebooks caked in sand

We dragged them once

Kicking and screaming to the beach

But nothing came of it.

And they persuaded us cunningly,

Into these cheerful hills

Into this vast sunlit expanse 

Of the waking dead

As penance for our sins

Here, where paintings that speak softly

To terrify grim 

Reachers

That bear glaringly down on insignificant guests

Here where paintings swallow the empty room

Choke violently on the white cube

Where spirits float past them murmuring,

Seldom rest 

Their feet back on the floor

We sit

And pay our respects

Heathens crossing ourselves before 

The savior's exalted death

Before the virgin mary hung

In gilded frame

I beg her

Please don't let him speak

Please, there is too much to say

Gag his mouth, sew shut his

Curling lips

And interrupting silently, you turn

Your eyes reach 

Seize the blood pulsing at my neck

Ring out my school girl's blush

To dry

We sit still, drenched 

And flawed

And staring at the strokes of each other

Prisoners to an empty echoing room

That has seen too much to pity

Tawny flesh

Across the threshold sounds of

Distant footsteps stalking impressionism

Pound suddenly, cruelly

And O, your eyes sink down 

Down to our

Reflections in the

Polished black void

Housing poorly drawn ghosts

Wavering and weak

And shaking her hallowed head

Sweet, rosy mary's eyes 

Are dead. Are we?

You stand now and

Clear your throat to speak