The Young Painter Poem by Thebes Thebes

In his room at night
lit, but with one light
He strokes warm shadows across the walls.
Born of ancient pleasures, ancient shames, ancient colors, falls
Dancing leaves, long gold grass
Combed by warm winds back
The young painter readies his things.

With hand he strokes
His soft, smooth skin.
Up over gently rolling hills;
Charged finger brush curving
Toward the cusp of his Appalachian chest
Then lifts, rests, pants some warm breath.
The young painter readies his things.

In these shadows linger wolves, with
Wet yellow teeth, and wet marble eyes, swaggering
In the night garden. On brown thorny vines;
Invisable if not for the moon shines, are
Red spots; roses, sweating oily tears of
Infinite labours, infinite years.
The young painter readies his things.

He lets fall in loose folds, low
Storm clouds around his ankles, purple stubbed toes.
His strokes are downward now
Into the valley where fine dark grass grows
By the brook flows; low
Licking wolves.
The young painter readies his things.

Naked now, cold he
Climbs into bed, and pulls
The sheets tight around his pulsing body
And soon falls into a dark sleep. He
Dreams of dark faces:
Botticelli, Marlow, Moreau, and Poe;
Bresdin, Huysmans, Osbert, Baudelaire...