My father’s hands smell of pine forests:
Rich, raw and resinous.
His face is a summer thunderstorm,
Dark as cumulus.
He smokes a dishevelled cigarette
And stares, untalking, at the canvas:
A polychrome miasma
Of turpentine scrubbed pigment;
An angry whorl
Where once there was language.

Rimbaud Dee

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11/23/2008 6:19:10 AM. You Are Here: My Father The Painter by Rimbaud Dee