The Aftermath of Show..

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The aftermath of show..the ARt-Tist sits on her red knotted carpet, old pieces of charcoal broken down into the fibers, black and infused. Paint splashes and droplets of works gone by, I don't even remember the works with which the paint reflects. Uncomfortable as the ribbed knots push up against my bare legs and small ass, impressions will linger and like tar from a cigarette will mark my skin. Joe Cocker playing in the background; surrounded by so much magic it's in the air, the musty carpet, even my sheer fabric laying against my skin it rang of magic, yet inside there are barely in words...I hear from inside my breathes, "I'm waiting to be discovered" ..turned my head and grabbed a cigarette. "Ah hell, I whispered as I lit the end..glowed red amber, "maybe nothing more to be discovered" puffs a couple of drags down, grabs her tools of trade..I am ARt-TIST

There's always another show....& Always the Aftermath. 

My Square for a Muse.

As I stare out the dome shaped window overlooking the square. It is bleak and desolate, grey and as I stand in the studio window, the  silhouette of my body, my open robe reveals; no stage, no audience, no costume ready to darn, no muse to play by my side...:The Show Must Go ON! but for who is my hidden reply. You are Art-Tist !  Yet no applause yes the torch burns down and ashes lay abound. No curtain will rise tonight as I stare out the dome shaped window overlooking the square. It is bleak, and desolate..Am I speaking of me or the Carney Show of Art-Tist!!