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Sean Cole – Show.

Sean Cole
Show.

Old men wake up, look at art.
The museum’s dark. You’re there, half-hearted.
They think you’re pretty and you are.

You, however, comb the doll-head garotted on a
sculpture called “Hell’s Door.” Bald
old men wake up, look at art

you made out of my last hair.
The museum’s a black house, ours.
They think you’re pretty and you are,

but in this mausoleum your hand slackens.
The grin erased and placed into a shaving bin. The
old men wake up, look at art

but they don’t understand it. What I meant was
“heart-darkened.” The museum fills up with blind people.
They think you’re pretty and you are,

but you aren’t here anymore. How you could have left
I’m not sure. All landscapes black now. Me, artifactual. Near extinction.
Old men wake up, look at art.
They think you’re pretty and you are.

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