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Poem:
She’s a collector of people, placing them on pedestals, friends and friends she hasn’t met yet all mounted, labelled perfect.
It’s quite clever you know she constructs the plinths from her own shortcomings, places her prizes on top, admires their precious porcelain features from a safe distance.
The painted people, statuesque, portrayed in an unfair light, not because it doesn’t favour them but it casts the artist in the shadow of her projected perfection. The closer she walks to the people on plinths the closer she gets to catching gimpleses of the tired, the angry, the surprisingly interesting bits.
People can’t be covered in sheets of pure thoughts, they’re flawed. The pedistalled people don’t like being adored.
They are stored way up there yet they still can’t help but reveal wear and tear, the cracks creep and crumble.
The plynths she’d curated smash to the floor revealing her perfect assembly as ugly at the core because she’d polished their faces too much rubbed their beauty sore. Take the people off their plinths, perfection doesn’t come in human form, we’re all beautifully ugly.
