monet

oh what a curious clutz! 

always falling for artists

with their magical fingers

waltzing my joints around like puppet

strings, kneeling below their gaze

painting all things

with a beautiful glaze of pink

my eye’s precise prescription

for blindness and softness

consumes all grooves 

protruding from their jagged

scowl that i bend into a smile

art is interpretation after all!

and what an artist I am

in my ability to project my 

beauty onto such an untalented thing

an “acquired palette” 

is a polite way of saying unpopular,

which is a crystalline shell

of political correctness

bound to crack under the hot sun

melting away the sugar coated 

compliance with boiling fury 

birthed by betrayal 

foul, tasteless, and tone deaf

nonetheless I fall,

for their angst and ambition

to create 

a miniature god

i watch from afar in awe

until my knees bruised 

buckled beneath blues

and velvety purple veins

blood rushes down 

now bent into a stance 

tall, strong, and sightful

a monet really is horrendous up close!