Vincent’s whispers

The Novels

Art of books that fly?
As crows,
a parliament of words.

Whispers of ancients,
rustling leaves forced through
dry lips and broken teeth.

My injured ear pulses
to their ebb and flow,
silent screams compressed
in leather caskets.

A rose of scarlet glow,
the only living thing
among the muted red
and russet browns.
Autumnal tones

skeletons, brittle bones,
snapping.
Pressed, dry and bleached
between the melanin infused
pages and threaded bindings.
Beginnings and endings.
Eyes stitched blind.

Better to turn
from this sorrow of dead art,
a song once heard. An aria of
words,
vibrating colours. a palette
dripping down a canvas,
now muted orange.

Words unread.
A dessicated fuse only,
to ignite  fall leaves
along the canal banks,
a bonfire of triviality

And the reader?
is he a brush stroke or an
addendum?
In this image I attempt?
This foolishness of counterfeit?

books scattered, No disorder,
the composition is carefully
contrived.

Just as the stories, bound in
faded ox blood

The author and the artist are,
you see, brothers under blighted
skin.

-Dave Kavanagh

Inspired by by Van Gogh “The Parisian novels”

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