Motion Pictures, Park Avenue Armory

Based on Martin Creed's 'The Back Door' exhibit

1.

A suited man walks along the invisible river bank

Of a voluminous S,

His feet thrumming under wraps

            Of light brown shoes, pointed tips

Behind a cast of wrinkled leather,

Toes curled, pearly with sweat,

            His face, a tone of mystery.

The path he takes to come to me is undulant, as I stand

            In a room of black emptiness, light from his motions

                        Muddling my face. He grips, in succession,
Bouquets of fresh blossoms – bracts  

Of trompetillas, Brazilian plumes, floss flowers, lady slipper orchids

And smashes them on the ground such that the impact

            Of flower on rock

            Plucks limbs of rosemary greens, piecing off, like blocks,

            Legs of chartreuse,

            Lips of dark, clotted scarlet,

            Inflorescent wings, like butterflies carved out of warm ivory.

 What was once a clean white floor, is now a gallery of broken skulls,

            And unused knuckles, and bellies filled with panting seeds.
What was once a clean white floor, is now a bed of scandal –
            Objects of tenderness shredded, flanked,

For me to bear witness to nude testimony.

What was once a clean white floor, is now a site of massacre –

            Even the air, ashamed, cries into moon-silk kimonos.

What was once a clean white floor, is now held across your eyes shaped

            Like magnified trombones, for the sake, he said, of art appreciation.