Animals are easier to address than art-makers, 

art-mongers, art-spinners suspended in eaves. An

ambush of arabesques awaiting the onlooker. A

bevy of beating wings so quick to take flight like

cumulus cacophony, a caravan of unconvention they

charm me these art-speakers, art-limbed, art-fluent in the art of love! I am their

congregation. Wallowing in the marsh and ready to be swallowed, I am a- 

drift on the sea of their soothing, lost to the tide. They are Moon. I am

Earth. Oh, that we might be

family! That I might be tucked in the same envelope, kept warm in their

fold-- ever will my gaze rest upon the ringed masks of these art-thieves, art-dealers whose guts

grumble with glory. This cup I raise, and

Gulp!  Take it in, this lyrical lace delicate dewdrops. I--am not afraid of this

herd stampeding on my hunger. Reaching to snatch whispers from air, an 

intrusion of intimacy. They said yes to the invitation of conspiracy. Got lost in the

jungle of concrete epiphany--art-workers emerging from the asphalt.

Kingdom animalia has no proper alleluia! These word wranglers tie me in 

knots. Art-dancers, they

leap--defy those chains of lethargy--rhythm writhe whistle their

lips have no leash. They are foxes, a

mob of art-muses, art-musicians, art-masters. A warning: their 

melodies might murder, though I suppose all nature of things are 

meant to die. And I, want to be reborn in this

nest, nestled in sequins and iambs and wrapped in the arms of  

ostentation surrounded by sapphire plumes. Make me a page in their  

parliament. Delight me with a shivering of their powdered stardust.  

Prickle my skin with the sweat of their brow, Oh I

quiver. For apart from you, dear art-guides, art-seers, art-

rivers, no flesh-wrapped-deity is worth the

risk of my charted affection. For you, I romp. Your buzz is a

swarm-ing sonic symphony. Blushing, I am besieged by this 

troop of painted tantrums. To not know you is 

unkindness. I am emptied by attempts to provide you a

venue. You creatures who know no bounds. You are

wisdom. Art-rebels, art-bloods--you are Sun. ‘Tis no proper

‘xaltation. I am besotted. I’ve drunk of the flood of

your flittering. Your praise fills my yap. I will chase you with the 

zeal of sex-starved salmon. I will flail. I will fight. I will flip.