Leg thing by Yolanda Mora
He asked me sensual leg thing
A collage not mine
Not my mother´s, not my mother´s
I´ve had it several times
Multiple viscosity leg thing
Somethen pure, pink and red
Long fake legs out of old camera
Tricks. Old, always old child.
Now it cannot be
I´m not an embarrassed actress
Anymore, with adulthood
Children become the childlike thing
Not a toy, not a time
Leg thing how could i do that
Did i miss someone?
O i was in love
I cried wow and wow before artists,
Now i play with books and letters, seamless
My legs expand themselves to
Fur husband.
Mother returns to eternity
I said wow and wept
A new incision in art
A collaboration
Baby wails
She is the artist now
With her grimaces and
Dubious laughter
With her pink stockings that
I make mine, mine, mine
Playing with my long hair.
City lights point out Xmas
Tree.
I live in the attic and I am blonde
Mother to ER
Fear, always fear, and a cough
Strolling, i don´t mean a fucking thing to them.
ER, the name is beautiful, that´s why
I love him
Writing sadly, the strong anger is managing
You.
Sad, sad, dear Dad
Drawings that scare my husband. And my love,
And my love:
I can´t be sensuous anymore.
I stroll under the city lights
Of fake skyscrapers: i don´t work in there,
City come out of dirt
Become dirt.
I see my two legs walking, wolfing, naked
And cold crunching at the airport:
Stop, woman, enough!
You can´t walk naked-
A fetish, my nudity
Marching under big things
Sept. Eleven and count forward
Or backwards:
Wow, and wow, and wow.
I´m in jail, i´m in hospital
I'm without razor-blades to shave
My mermaid cut legs.
I move from propriety to propriety . naked.
My ass sitting in corduroy sofas,
Or silk? Hot weather
Mirrors dysfunctional
Family...
To artists i am a leg thing
I am, or was, a something thin.
The wastebasket full of fake drawings
Struggling to make something
Out of me.
Now that my mother or body
Doesn't belong to me anymore,
It is someone else.
Clean laundry to cover
Nudity, witch thing for academy.
And airports.
For i am tall, dark blue, sir, and invisible then- Baby in ER, you can die of fear with me.
Yolanda Mora was born in Madrid, Spain, 1973. She studied Fine Arts in Universidad Complutense of Madrid. She writes and paints since she was a child. She´s currently living in Madrid. She uses Art as a way of releasing happiness, fear, sadnesss... A full time painter, she´s preparing exhibitions in Madrid and Ohio with artist John Rossi.