The Solo (Cup) Cult of Artists and Their Mysterious Men(tors)

(for Shawna)
..

Only the rum
-bled tongues are red,
really. The rest of us is indigo
white-washed starkissed shine.

We meet only in imaginary
rooms of speck-tack-you
-large spackles, small sprink
-lings of rosemary and sage,
henna and ink, swirls
and whimsy moon hollows.

Our pages are infinitely scroll
-able, soul-able, stole-able, off
into the ebony of night, the flight
of keys, the lull
-a
-bye
of seas.

These brushes have formerly been
swords, s-words, psych-wards,
where we stalk and talk and
chalk ourselves silly. Once known,
we’re really

(no, really)

sweet underneath
all this swatchy skin. We’ve got
an affinity for toe socks and long
turquoise locks and bright bows
that shoot fire. But our deepest
desire is a

(howl like a Woolfe)

room
of
our
own.

 

 

..

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3 Responses to The Solo (Cup) Cult of Artists and Their Mysterious Men(tors)

  1. “underneath / all this swatchy skin” – very nice. A room of our own is very nice as well. And I like your title of many different meanings.
    I sure wish I knew where Shawna was 😦 But this is a fine tribute!

  2. Violet says:

    Thanks so much for sending me this link yesterday! I can’t believe I missed it!

    Solo Cup … Men To(u)rs … Hilarious word play. 🙂

    Good heavens, I love this. I will go on and on. Just a warning.

    “The rest of us is indigo
    white-washed starkissed shine.” So much love for this. Only our (liquored-up) tongues are red. The rest of us is blue, painted white … like the stars. Whitewash doesn’t cover very well though, does it? It doesn’t take a lot of rain and sun to weather us enough to let our blue shine through again. Kind of frustrating, really. So many kinds of blue, too. Good and bad.

    Love this: “We meet only in imaginary
    rooms” … The line break draws out “image I nary.” Don’t take my picture. That’s like proof that I exist. Never. I won’t allow it.

    “speck-tack-you” … The best you’re gonna get is a tiny dot of me that you can pin on a cork board for a while.

    “small sprink” … So just like words that begin with “s” turn into personal tributes for me, words that begin with “sp” are always Sylvia Plath + whatever, and a backwards p.s. plus whatever. So here, I see a small Sylvia Plath skating rink, ice or regular. Also a p.s. rink. And “rink” is very close to a “ring,” phone or finger. But it’s just barely off. Like an almost engagement. Something fell apart though. And the girl is left without a ring, twirling around on her roller skates alone. At least there’s music and flashy lights and poetry. I guess she’ll write her own p.s.es. And that’s fine. She can handle anything. Especially being alone. It’s not the first time.

    “rosemary and sage,
    henna and ink, swirls
    and whimsy moon hollows” … Smiles. 🙂

    Oh, and interesting that “rinks” is an almost “ring,” while “lings” is an almost link. Just some sort of barely-a-miss all around.

    I love this: “Our pages are infinitely scroll
    -able, soul-able, stole-able, off” … Also, there’s an “infinite lie scrawl” in there.

    “lull/a/bye of seize” … This is one of those holding -on-while-letting-go endings.

    “These brushes have formerly been
    swords, s-words, psych-wards” … 🙂

    “Once known,
    we’re really” … Are we? Sometimes it doesn’t feel that way.

    “We’ve got
    an affinity for toe socks and long” … The silliness and deep sadness do go hand in hand, don’t they?

    Love what you did with the V.W. ref.

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