There can be but one answer, one easel, one lessened To extract one swirl, one splotch, one patch of heaven In an eye, a rectum, a floating nose, hazed, dribbling, drained
There can be no answer after the dada denials of denials of genocides and reason There can be but paint and weight and shine and light from giant inlets for morning Worship, if the rains and clouds could but bother competing NY artists Stilted drivers, a new search for sense, after Hiroshima, after Hitler, Stalin, famine, avarice, the depression, public works, roller coaster ridden Bullet holes in worship temples of paint, thick, vibrant, mixing, melt.
He was Armenian no less, no more, no press, an orphan, confessed, no core, no jest He was Russian in a mirror, hair trigger, poetry reaching mustache, airs He could swing with a chameleon, be with child born to other wombs Channel women barely past teen spleens, be all Picassoed, all Cezanned, crooned Stretch marked American canvas, New York, flashy epicenter, bought, sold
A dull drum beat destined drivel past paint splashes, squares, rounds, crossed lines Fainting memories, unformed teeth, like a half born heart, half dead Revving revolutions without a song, brushing aside stroked loathing Masked sacrament in every walk up loft, Jazz spread, dark corner Stairway thrusted post card unsigned, unnamed, groping flagellation
Players and layers of shaped moral imperatives frustrated in loud colors In silent majesty, dispersed, wheat and chaff in parody, self-cursed More tragic that mere biography, detestable destiny To paint is to live in unlit hallways emergent The excreted, the exorcised, the damned Frozen relics of pious struggles to return.
Bedros Afeyan April 23, 2010 on the Train to Didcot from Padington, UK