Philip Guston Considered As An Ekphrastic Text by Chris Stewart

He takes his feet with him

And his hands.

..

He piles the corpses of his favourable reviews

In a cart.

..

They carry their feet

So they can work

Preserve their hands

In crude oil like ammonites,

..

Stack their lungs

Like smoking chimneys

Flaring effluent,

..

Discharge themselves from hospital mortuaries

And retard against walls where

The dead queue patiently.

..

He piles his hands as a bonfire

They light

And

The chiascuro hides

What they refused to see:

..

Feet

And

Hands

Gathered

Smoking

Late at night

In the kitchen

..

Window volcanic

Magma night metamorphic

Ammonite

Tar

Bitumen

Formaldyhyde

Smokestacks.

..

A charred cinder cross

On unkempt weed-lawn

Ayrian mower in shed.

..

Crude oil on tap,

Seabed in the kitchen sink,

Plates unwashed

No visitors come to visit

The plughole

He struck.

..

His feet feed mushrooms

Sitting in the basket

That forgets the dog’s bark.

..

Hands point

But they don’t laugh any more.

His back remembers the applause of slaps.

Migration

New shores

Flat palm on cheek

Connect

Red face

Dishevelled hood.

..

His new work?

No good.

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