Bright Thoughts From a Rothko, Untitled
I only felt like half today;
I’m too lazy to cogitate
Every paint is just shade.
Every day a day
Off. Posh galleries pay, anyway,
to do what I shirk.
How their minds work
To explain, to conjure,
All that weight which paints store
as colours cohere
their thoughts and their forms.
What is paint for?
I like it flat
As a man on his back.
I can’t help those who can’t see
why I’m great. On break or vacation,
I only stare back. Unrealizing
ideas, I ask:
Copyright © by Kevan Copeland
This poem appeared previously on the Very Nice, Very Nice blog under the pseudonym Anthony Zanetti.