Don’t Make Those Cards, Renoir!
He is dead. But agrees.
Don’t print The Country Dance
on card stock & sell in boxes of 20.
Oh the robust mustache. The bearded face
that smells the blush dust of country woman’s
cheek while dancing. Country eyes inhaling.
Why because some modern man will buy
the cards & write inside one
& accidentally say the truth!: I am glass & you are
concrete floor. I am glass
6 feet up &
dropped
— we get it.
[violent section]
•
What if I (me) go to the Morgan Library
& Museum & there they are:
sketch upon sketch upon sketch
of this pair
waiting to be painted
with his nose again again again
against her rosed-up cheek.
Country woman looks at us. She says
OMG can you believe this
guy he loves the smell of me!
He loves my bosoming the ballooning
of my bottom & extra flare of bottom skirt
but oh oh oh don’t ever make us
into cards for sale in boxes of 20.
(She agrees!) Some guy modern will buy us
& write inside one:
Woman, let this be you
& me
& ah! The woman modern (me)
will break
open
& will wrap herself
around
his van
& they will take off
& [die]
Renoir! Don't let nose smell heat!
lol. He agrees
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