There was a painter In my first studio space that I remember She used to attach Her own hair onto her paintings They were stacked in the hallway Depicting faces Desperate but hopeful
A row of death masks Fusing life and death together I mean, life and art, or is it death? Or maybe it's just me?
At times, I have been Obsessed with connecting To materials and textures And I dreamt of having
A face made of marble A face made of marble A face made of marble
How do you kiss, how do you kiss A piece of marble Or a piece of gold? I've always tried, I've always tried To prove that I'm the living Connecting dead parts, dead parts, dead parts
Once I tried acting I was the virgin in the cast Like I wasn't quite human Performing alabaster
An empty canvas The shape around the others In a silent pageant Away from emotion Now I rearrange objects That my friend made for my show I'm not sure if these are art Or just stuff she made for me
But I rearrange them on the countertop Like I'm examining the stage plot Working on my performance Examining the borders, the borders Living my text Two dead parts (Two dead parts) Two still-lifes (Two still-lifes)Teksty umieszczone na naszej stronie są własnością wytwórni, wykonawców, osób mających do nich prawa.
