Seagull Attack

Seagull Attack

Suddenly, something went
for the head, and I
turned German
Expressionist, elongated
and aged in a vicious splatter
of American Abstract.

Through swoops, batter
and blur, I saw claws
scratch and extract
thick pigments, interrupting
watercolour assumptions
in my innocuous walk.

I think, observing
in furious whites
and occasional yellow
frenzies of angle and edge,
was a visionary eye
crafting something undone.

Now the physician is finishing
the image with pointillist
tracks, splashing tetanus
vaccine through avenues and cracks;
and as representation, when I am seen
I am more accurate than I have been.

Copyright © by Kevan Copeland

Bright Thoughts From a Rothko, Untitled


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.