There was a painter
In my first studio space that I remember
She used to attach
Her own hair onto her paintings
They were stacked in the hallway
Depicting faces
Desperate but hopeful

A row of death masks
Fusing life and death together
I mean, life and art, or is it death?
Or maybe it's just me?

At times, I have been
Obsessed with connecting
To materials and textures
And I dreamt of having

A face made of marble
A face made of marble
A face made of marble

How do you kiss, how do you kiss
A piece of marble
Or a piece of gold?
I've always tried, I've always tried
To prove that I'm the living
Connecting dead parts, dead parts, dead parts

Once I tried acting
I was the virgin in the cast
Like I wasn't quite human
Performing alabaster

An empty canvas
The shape around the others
In a silent pageant
Away from emotion
Now I rearrange objects
That my friend made for my show
I'm not sure if these are art
Or just stuff she made for me

But I rearrange them on the countertop
Like I'm examining the stage plot
Working on my performance
Examining the borders, the borders
Living my text
Two dead parts (Two dead parts)
Two still-lifes (Two still-lifes)