A performance of paint

Pointed look of porcelain, he works like
Resin mid-advert or operating
On textiles; there are surveillance points centred
On the stained off-stage, but he will not think
Outside the box; all hands work, reincarnated
Into the next colour: beige, ochre, light brown
And there is a potential for taint.
Consequence is in the finger that haunts
Over a button where the task is
Ethereal and taken for granted. He
Is oblivion or a hypothesis,
Bent flat under a canvas to franchise
Fat wolves with collars — you could picture him
In Un Chien Andalou, but so clean,
He has his crew-cut, no ants just the
Suggestion of absence and eyes; a wish
For water to curl around the wall and
Cleanse. Simply greyness backs itself up
In him — a hardwiring and that which is
Beyond the tabletop.

Anything could have been under the fabric, but which girl weaved it for you, and did you truly see the final result? The walls were still changing position so you could ascribe to them a change in the air, and you might have even entered into the dialogue — but every word is inherent in your aside. Those images were memories; you might have thought of a shaft of light or a bright colour; you might have made a discovery, that your workbench is like every other operating table and counter and bureau.