Seagull Attack

November 5, 2022 Kevan Copeland

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.

Cataract At The Lip

June 19, 2022July 3, 2022 Kevan Copeland

Cataract At The Lip

Of the glass, vision sipped
from the gush of amygdala—open
your brim to the lush
of Monet. Pour from the frame:

Chardonnay in a quiver,
disperse and flow—livid
strobes of Van Gogh.
Then, harden and flay

Off clots to metallic
coruscations—figments of Klimt.
Now: stiffen to spirits
dispirited, and disparate—pause

In thoughtful paralysis: Hopper.
No stopper for an Imagist
cascading the palate: paint
an intoxicant; the body, a blotter.

Richard In The Orchard

March 1, 2016 Kevan Copeland

orchard1

Richard In The Orchard

Author: he has slipped
a manipulation of the mind; mine.

Past rows that glow, he walks
where abstracts contract and harden
into facts—their magic
more exacting than this sifting shape; the fantastic
now practical.

Chernobyl harvests: inedible, they stir
regard—carpenter or god,
engineer of clear parts,
their maker appears.

Words on interiors cannot be
seen or shared;
images are louder. In these trees—
here, is power.

And you, looking
back at my branch, view
Impressionist reds, ripening
notions: disnebulous rubella,
their vermilion skins value

yielding their paints
in waves of rosacea.

This poem appeared previously on the Very Nice, Very Nice blog under the pseudonym Anthony Zanetti.