Arm aber sexy, the painter paints
(This is for my art professor, this poem, paintings. This is how multiple passions burn your head. We mess with it, we celebrate.)
(Yolanda M. Self-portrait circa 2020)
Untitled
1.
-The sky turns purple,
Weeds rattle.
The painter walks by,
He was my teacher, the professor,
We were the students,
Walked to and fro
We´d drink black coffee,
Strolled the campus, we talked
And laughed, lay eggs, hijacked the classrooms
With sour breath, stink piss and armpits
Read essays one million years old, we left them
Untouched,
Our bodies not
Relaxed with clean laundry
Dried up in the sun, on the grass
On the campus, all over, up and down
Biographies and cutting on inner thighs,
Red-haired childhood Anne of Avonlea,
And Galdós, Tormento, we were
Romantic
Starred
Stupid.
He was our professor,
Recogimos todos nuestras vergüenzas del suelo
Y lo pintamos y trabajamos y trabajamos y
Dejamos de ser estúpidos.
La caída del guindo fue atroz para todos.
(Painting Edie at the university, 1996. by Yolanda M)
2.
-Unfulfilled passions,
Flies and poppies would smell like cheese
Against the ringy horizon,
Nothing like crickets
Screaming inside the bushes, the sting
The burning heat of July
Smell of sudden wet earth after the storm, the rare of it
Violently drying in the fixated sun
On us, and off the blue shadows of pines,
Silly and dramatic, endured the sacrifice of sunbathing
Lying, trembling nervous handwriting
His students.
The perfectionist, the dull dolly-looking
Of the paintings
The young man, so bored of mannequins-
Do you want your model sketches
Being hung-up, pure ink movement
Pink flesh perverted glued to a wall
Do you go this way or the other?
The youngsters, cowardly behind beer,
Smashed lavender under butts, dismember ants and
Piss loudly and curses: This is what you hang on the wall,
Failed thighs, twigs these hips, the sore calves, blur
The face is, he had blushed,
Or it is the sunset, the sunburn, vigorous,
Infuriating the professor, and that is a good sign,
His face back to his brush and canvas, “the suicide of art”,
On his notebooks.
(Agenda YM 2023, these days)
3.
-The professor, being incessantly aware of his sex-appeal,
Scratches his beard and crotch,
Leans on the million blades of grass and bugs
And black dirts of his garden, daydreams at noon,
The effort, el esforzado, his body is raw red
Hot and pulsing, Korean music jazzes crosses the telephon,
Jaw doubts and falls,
Jags dubs double doubts,
Saliva thread on the black screen,
(He plots)
Forehead shines. For the painter paints.
Recogimos todos nuestras vergüenzas del suelo
Y lo pintamos y trabajamos y trabajamos y
Dejamos de ser estúpidos.
La caída del guindo fue atroz para todos.
🏹🦌