on first looking into a book of Rothkos

like every child
he was an artist –
a dancer sometimes
a singer, but mostly
a painter…and life itself
was his sunshine
[exciting as lemon
surprising as grapefruit
sweet as banana]
until one day in joy
having captured it on paper
he peed for an encore –
but what ensued
was a smack on the head
that made his nose bleed
[on his work of the purest art]
and the colour it bled
was an almost purple red
which he copied and copied
until it spread to the corners
of the known world –
nearly snuffed out the yellow
that was his delight
and everything everything
grew darker than night
until all was despair
until he couldn’t care
until

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.

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[meant as allegory, not biography.
no longer able to paint larger paintings, he committed suicide in 1970 at the age of 66.]

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