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By Max Quayle

I feel like a Picasso – I was born

and then it hits me: I am. and do remember the day
Trapped on canvas for two hundred years, he painted me, I thought I was a sketch –
glaring through two, haggard and misshapen eyes a beginning, the foundation of a great beauty –
presided over by a forehead that belongs on a profile he would stare at me with those wanting eyes – so blue,
but I am a head on rendition, or at least I think… and fertile yet tortured and masked.
Two left hands serve me no real purpose- I could feel him want me
painted as sitting upon one of them to twist and wreathe
Dicey ‘human-esqueness’. poorly paid muse.

I am dusted three times a week

By a dull, but proportionate, resident He would stab me
with the bound plumes from a peacock’s tail. from odd angles and look at me
It tickles, but all I can do is smirk – I always smirk, in a mirror. He did my upper half right
the left side of my mouth touches my left ear, and my bottoms by his left hand;
and the right just sort of ends. never stroked twice
Deformed on purpose

If it weren’t for the Renoir Any way,

Flawless, directly across the way – I am really a sketch,
that man is more human than the model – Stark, unnatural - unnerving
each strand of hair curls about and is defined – with color splashes and too little background.
A high field of grain, softly waving in a breeze I am twisted and skinny, and I am sure
My mottled glunt of shaggled, ranky twigs there is no one in the world
Just hangs from my ovoid head… quite like me…