The Illustrated Man

His canvas is withered; once a gallery display,

Now ‘distasteful’ graffiti on recycled paper.

If auctioned back then, they would’ve been collectible,

Now faded, only fluorescent in sepia

photographs.

 

Once young and kicking, but that’s forgotten,

as if his art’s backdrop was always creased mess.

Once complimented, they’re now ignored,

Like taboo patterns on fragile casing.

They’re not dated, out of fashion, archaic,

It’s the exhibition that’s aged, he’s sorry to say.

 

Long-sleeved shirts are preferable, as if

He’s wounded; an eyesore, black marks smudged

Illegible to the twenty-something critic.

He’s too old for regret in something

once sublime. Now, a stain he can’t fix,

an embarrassment, named ‘tattoo.’

 

An embarrassment, named ‘tattoo’,

Once sublime, now a stain he can’t fix.

He’s too old for regret in something

illegible to the twenty-something critic.

He’s wounded; an eyesore, black marks smudged.

Long-sleeves are preferable, as if.

It’s the display that’s aged, he’s sorry to say.

 

They’re not dated, out of fashion, archaic

Like taboo patterns on fragile casing.

Once complimented, they’re now ignored,

As if his art’s backdrop’s was always creased mess.

Once young and kicking, but that’s forgotten.

 

Photographs, now faded. Only fluorescent in sepia.

If auctioned back then, they would’ve been a masterpiece.

Now ‘distasteful’ graffiti on recycled paper,

His canvas is withered; once a gallery display.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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