Paintings

All the museums are afraid of me, Because each time I spend a whole day In front of a painting The next day they announce The painting’s disappeared. Every night I’m caught stealing In another part of the world, But I don’t even care About the bullets hissing toward my ear, And the police dogs who are onto The smell of my tracks, Better than lovers who know The perfume of their mistress. I talk to the canvases that put my life in danger, Hang them from clouds and trees, Step back for some perspective. You can easily engage the Italian masters in conversation. What noise of colors! And hence I’m caught Very quickly with them, Seen and heard from a distance As if I had a parrot in my arms. The hardest to steal is Rembrandt: Stretch a hand out, there’s darkness — The terror seizes you, his men don’t have bodies, Just closed eyes in dark cellars. Van Gogh’s canvases are insane, They whirl and roll their heads, And you have to hold on tight With both hands, They’re sucked by a force from the moon. I don’t know why, Breughel makes me want to cry. He wasn’t any older than me, But they called him the old man Because he knew it all when he died. I try to learn from him too But can’t stop my tears From flowing over the gold frames When I run off with The Four Seasons under my armpits. As I was saying, every night I steal one painting With enviable dexterity. But the road’s very long So I’m caught in the end And get home late at night Tired and torn to shreds by dogs Holding a cheap imitation in my hands.