Bright Thoughts From a Rothko, Untitled

I only felt like half today;
I’m too lazy to cogitate
a name.

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,
to endure:

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.