I married my wife in a black frock coat an the day I got off a Greyhound Bus. Somehow this is related to Du Champ, an artist who exhibited a urinal and said that because he was an artist, it MUST be art. As an artist I proclaim our marriage to be art.
The blushing bride wore black,
not that Truffaut film,
it was something else,
my wedding.
As surreal as an Andalusian dog,
nah, more surreal than An Andalusian Dog.
Dali or Buñuel could not have scripted this.
Three days on a bus,
An aging hippie fueling the fire
of a Sears groupie,
Strange words kept me awake,
“You are my little Barbie Doll,
and I love you.” said to a Cowboy Hat,
then that quivering, desperate recitation
of a frantic, fractured rosary.
No sleep in a day,
7 AM, my wedding at 7PM,
An arrival me by an embrace,
The blushing bride stripped bare by desire,
nah, not Black Tape’s homage to Marcel,
something else,
nah, not Du Champs’ shattered glass,
something else,
my desire,
my blushing brides` desire,
Artists making art as love,
Du Champ gave up art to play chess,
I guess when you start it all you’re entitled.
Entitled to make art out of something else.
The right of the artist,
The artist decides what is art,
Getting lost in your lovers embrace is art.
As an artist I have proclaimed it to be.
Du Champ gave us permission.
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