A COPPOLA SHORT
Delacroix’s Chopin, thought about neither the sketched nor oil face. Take
renderings instead of schematic expressions, the balloon people Wittgenstein quotes (you
quote a sign) and why not add a mustache or make mouths small (Wilde’s in the middle of his lower face) as
Velasquez ruffs are steaming pantaloons for nobles, here again knifing the Irish mobster blood like a white highlight.
Colin in burlap, reflection on his staff, none on the sheep the skin moist and translucent her
complexion spreading light evenly suggests broken color in common tones do her like a wheatfield or
Monet’s island midriver such a win in midday light or wet fields of any kind. Sorrow
only follows, we don’t let it lead (bind if we were pageant bamboo for mock pipes) here all
floats, like the Whistler wetly transparent panels of women neither Greek nor Chinese,
exotic only as we know light collects but need not pool. The word syrinx in French as the spine says Platon
in bad translations, obscurer forms kept, met as skulls in Hades Lucian observes
are like as peas, or cornet bells front on, darkening hole a troubled reflection all the
way down, Verdon in Grand Central still childlikely never awkward.