Monday, December 31, 2018

new year's eve

we write and we breathe
we live
we die
taking inventory of our days, our hours
hopefully noticing the snap of the stars at night
at mercy to the sorrow-holes
at mercy to the sun's reflection
we show up
we retreat
we grasp & release
resolutions made by fools & thieves
paths are walked by the weary paisley'd wanderer
in woods dappled by constrast
hold it in

give it away

arms made sinewy & beautiful
to hold the sky, to hold the fragile
backs of willow-marble-pink to lean into the wind
legs both sure & liquid
a heart that recalls the taste of snowflakes on my tongue
the magnetic north of your skin
dreams that speak the gypsy tongue

we write
we breathe
unfolding to the evergreen of possibility
to the grace within . . .

we breathe

Sunday, December 30, 2018


the story told of typewriters
click-clack talking back
that echo lingers in my head
as if some turnkey stood there
mending stories thread
words pressed out upon a white page
embedded promises to wildness made
raising gaze to break of day
i slip from sombre thoughts to pray
to sun and blue and unseen things
to bark and bone and

of light

your watermark lies upon my thigh
parchment skin, burned edges dry
blue jay's call nestled on my tongue
damage wrung
song of salt & stone
dreams of moonlight call me home

tattoo bands of evergreen
circle round the king & queen
days of tourmaline slip past
pearled fast--woven
hold to dormant rising tide
stories old--a thousand years it took to find

spin the bottle--throw the dart
by scent i knew your tattered heart
ancient magic cast the spell
wind shifts--enchantment dwells
lucky we are--the ones who fly
uncharted path
indigo skies


PAINT me a picture of dragons & orbs
weaved of the blood and the pain we've absorbed
lacquered in memory of fire & air
curled up asleep alone in his liar
persian & azure--scales tarnished by time
smelling of snow & turkish key-lime
i stand at the entrance opal with shine

paint me a picture of loss & regret
the heart of a dragon will never forget
impaled by a brushstroke
twilight crimson-fire smoke
as hearts synch in three-quarter time
this ancient twining answers all rhymes
the cord transforms to silver-quartz-fine

paint me a picture consistent & true
of dragons & hollows & the magic of blue
who sees the dragon
who sees the soul
transparent to all as trust is the toll
redemption is found in fissures of light
there in the twilight, we hold--we fight
to open in wonder & dance with delight

paint me a picture of dragons & orbs
weaved of story
     all light we absorb

Wednesday, December 26, 2018

hand fast

are of this field
gathered wheat & moonstone
cloaked in the sombre sky of winter rain
separated by design
by desire cooled to rye whiskey
the crimson thread thin as sinew
tender not
merely silent
merely sure
resilient to wind & weather
tucked within that hollow space between bone & solitude
now resides the mirth of tiny souls trusted
held fast to the lines we've drawn of ourselves
for ourselves
of ochre & ash
wild wonderers
where one leaves off ... another begins
thick histories of pages wrinkled
tethered to this field
this life
golden gather

hold fast

Tuesday, December 18, 2018

Of a room

Strawberry carpet
ceiling & floor
cupcake afternoon
pain ignored
cinnamon memory tucked into bed
sugarplum erotica lives in my head
taste of moonbeams
suffering sure
smell of snowfall
distant vapor
snow heralds forgiveness
sugar-light dusting--blue reflecting
stars talk in languages tempered by time
understood in pulses & rhymes
seams too tight
skin alight
ruched sorrow felt in waves white
pressed between ancient panes of glass
this life waking

this night.... stars shining
snow falling
at last

The blue you fall into

There is a blue you fall into
on a winter morning
an eternal blue
of reflected fields furrowed gold
cyan rivers wild
shallow and
claimed by golden-pink cirrus-threads
dancing to the sun
coolness wraps solitary and still
below the branches of the hackberry & maple
whispering of
night things & moonbeams
birds silent
breezes rising shifting
dark to alice-blue-gleam
the blue you fall into
Winter morning dream

birth . . .

Baby Boom Daughter of a Movie Queen and a Medicine Show

Juggling moons and carnival masks
between the blue waters & river banks 

rain and snow comes on
heavy & thick as black as a walnut's thigh
turning this lament into a great horn's cry
the sharp daggered pierce
of a cut to the core
bruises blue and wounds abyss 

each intake of breath
every mistake and regret

to abide with the pain
yet there...there!

move that picture of dragons & orbs



move it

to reflect even more upon the veil
secrets accomplished 
life's hidden tale
memory stolen by whimsies hand
sparkling & golden 
enchantment beholden 

rain melts all regret 

Moon to last quarter square with the Sun

stillness here
snaps of cloud fall to earth
an embrace of open arms
to color the night in lost and found
moon-glow & screech owl call
Yes, that's right-- there

Hold there
Cut of snow
Breath of moon

Wednesday, November 21, 2018


sun beguiles
bark of maple warms the hand as
it lingers
blue ombré sky painted last night by wild geese
as they flew at a 45 degree angle to mercury
fields pale golden gleaning in light from a thousands moons
hours strike
dogs bite
trains whistle in the night
we pause
we breathe
holding to our precious sorrows while
chanting primrose spells to alchemize pain to joy
all the while we hold the stone that turns dust to dust
and tastes of home
scars tighten
bones lighten
the journey spiked and forgotten
taunt with the weight of days
burn we must
to breathe
to  know
to always trust the
sun's shadow

patchouli room

laying in wait
for the potion to take 
a light tender hold of your heart 
at six thousand feet 
the atmosphere's weak 
and the lover abandons his part  
this grey morning gloom 
all the pain in this room 
this high country fragile fresh start 

patchouli room 
ghosts autumn tomb 
the fire fails to spark
love, please come to bed 
get naked instead
of eviscerating our fractured cold stars 
masks are just futile 
surrender is beautiful 
this room will treasure our scars 

what should have been ours 
dissolved to salt stars 
no embers spark to fire
on tongues sharp with dust
our demons breathe rust
expectations brier
thru iced windows glaze
deer come out to graze 
we surrender our bricked-up desire 

patchouli room 
'neath silvered frost moon
trust tumbles & falls to bed 
fear slips to the side 
solace abides
the potion was ours for the taking

golden day dawns
intimacy bonds
pine wraps around crisp bones
stolen locket of time
partings solitary rhymes
with words 
... the spell is breaking


you tease me with need, apples & emptiness
struggling to hardwire
lounging there in yellow silk boxers 
against your father's blueprint 
aging with remorse 
without awareness

i hate football

and struggle to understand my own fragility

what is it that binds & stretches to accommodate our twisted, wounded selves
acceptance comes with a cost; 
a kiss tasting of popcorn & fresh red peppers
a blizzard whorls beyond our walls 
and if you would open just long enough
into blue eyes 14 thousand feet deep
and rich with wisdom & words and muscles hard
our bones are old and speak of chasms of mirth & merit
replete with lovers, summers & wine 

why the goodbye
why walls of blue-glass brick
only to find the hole again 

altars of divine care & memory to what was & what could be 
sparked by flannel warmth & distance spanned by


Tuesday, November 20, 2018

tapping the amber

resin lies waiting
pooled against the forest floor
if i indulge the curiosity
the residue sticks in my dreams
rests against my spine when woke
stirring thrumming drumming
incessant yearn to feel something true
i will stand with back against bark
smelling the coming snow

for ...


Hollowness is only hollowness when viewed from within the hollow
When beside it, it shimmers with a ripeness found only in
the sun
most often found in shades of blue & green
though gold sometimes hides deep in its pockets
lay your ear against its tautness


do you hear the ocean? the pulling note from a cello?
snow falling into the tree tops?

maybe the soundtrack from Goldfinger
or your life
lay your hand upon the hollow and snap down a beat
a ring of rhythm surprises
holding a tone & a thread of story

hollowness holds everything when one stands from without


we phoenix a million times
rising rising to face the blue
a blue unnamed by those that name
winds tempered by structures both
real & imagined
matters not this rising
matters not this wind
matters not this obstacle

only the blue 

Monday, November 19, 2018

November 19th

the morning leans open
mild as an April
yet here we sit in mid-November
it should be brisk--snap--brittle--chill

but it is this

this portal of spring stranded against the softest blue blue sky
pressed between the panes of summer & frost
forty-eight degrees and rising
a rolling south breeze teasing leaves golden brown
everything is a golden brown ... amber hued
the blue jay circling the hackberry tree knows the truth
knows the magic of this brilliant morning
who knew there could be this shade of blue

mild as an April

Sunday, October 28, 2018


What is it that attracts?
that pulling together of fragments:
moths to flame
hands to hearts
ink to page 
polarized metal
butter to knives 
skin to skin
eyes to the garden of possibility 
aubergine rye-whiskey dreams
the torn edges of leather coats
childhood gardens
a myriad of particles collide in recogniton 
something shared 
something desired 
gestures seem innocous
thrown down as carmine on leaves 
and borealis wounds 
a minutiae of fluttered moments hanging breathless
the plethora of pleasure gleamed in the capture 
intellect to intention 
light to shadow
close to open 
wings to weather 

magnectic north 
lies in the curve 
of you 

of two forty in autumn

with the welter of deep winter waters 
swirling skirted surrender 
of this brilliant brillo ruby rub 
electric current caught 
oh tingled tender fire 
lay upon these shoulders 
with the roaring need of a thousand storms 
hold fast 
and tremble crimson under me 


stand before the silver
in the trembling golden of early autumn
Mercury wind
raises the palpable tremor of forgiveness
diamond cut the sky blue to blue
to blue
shimmering this day
in sorrow's pale mire
truth fights for tenure falling
leaves to shape shifting cooling ground
wonder chases the shadows to fullness
this light

Thursday, October 18, 2018

the wren

of this autumn morning standing
to ten thousand things
of water & weight
the wren stands feathered
upon the birch silver--shimmering in
its morning waking
waiting upon the wind
waiting upon the sun
to shift its roots to winter's edge
breathing upon the light of this day

waiting on the wind

Saturday, October 13, 2018

the gray

it lays on me
the expectation of words
mango butter melting
then gone
seeped to cells
rolling beating pulsing
on the dust
my ordinary hours circling circling
tasting of powder sugar sunshine
October's sidewalk at nine o'clock in the evening .....

Monday, October 8, 2018

waking to saturn

we should write in the sky with cinnamon toast points
ruby chalk the leaves to play red rover among stars
peeling otter bark from taffy streets to feed our souls relief
crystal rolled to open
pine & honeyed
if you close your eyes just right
softly with the dreams of your six-year-old self
close your eyes
and lift the scarred corners of your peach-pit mouth
to rise
to fly
to the constellation just north of the meridian


Monday, October 1, 2018


words lie inside my vanilla bean heart
but i possess no tools to scrap them clean
I am the moon obscured by rain
gazing on their unremarkable roundness
cool my bones as i become more transparent
waning in sorrow's weather
this day 

Wednesday, August 8, 2018


echinacea tequila sure
robust elixir sun-shade divine
turning turning spinning time
of more
sweet summer grass beaming
present leaning yestermore
to aster's bumble
off be bumbled of 'morrow's edge
delight of day to pierce the thread
dazzle the dream
lengthen the hour
this everlasting June
bewitched with light
spoonflower bloom
to the edge of lone
to street of wonder
clouds of autumn
knotted besotted
dandelion's daughter
who comes to speak of winter here?
violet buttercups of a south-easterly wind
olive tongues dance upon the white birch thigh
no cloud lingers in this azure blue surety
turning turning spinning shine
blackberry daisy

light of mine

226161 miles

how do we quiet inner whispers of dissent & anger
to greet days crinolined & perfect
clouds streaming 'it's a wonderful life' life life
leaves of the porcelain berry tremble tremble
august carves out the hollow places and stirs it with a wooden spoon
smelling of
pollunating corn
raw vanilla
apply pressure to the open wounds of sorrow & longing
apply pressure
press to the


as evening approaches … 

Friday, July 27, 2018

requiem #845

if today my spark should cease
these motes of movement settle
then i would leave upon this blue
my fractal fists of being
small parcels of crimson-saffron
to nudge against your shinbones in summer's sky
echoing with the pulse of fireflies

if today my willing should dim
this gypsy contradance gentled
find me tucked against the wild iris
at nine thousand three hundred and five feet
riding the water white over stones over mountain
as pine nettles sharp sticks to tongue
arms wide open to the sun

if today all blaze & briar rests
this blood smoothes to heart's rebellion
yearning shadows the cottaged cage
of fragility's equation written
to the song & tender weight of honeysuckle
comets flicker to remind
stardust will be all that you can find

hour glass

the spark and crash of tempests flaring
solared prism of misplaced forgiving
marks our journey
from death
to living
circled in amber arms at twilght's nearing
we reach
we touch
we fold
with blood's carmine brimming
softly falling
a summer sparrow's song ...

Tuesday, July 24, 2018


accomplished you call me
bold and loyal blue
like a geisha
noble you
steeped in integrity
intelligence rolls & rolls like waves
you call me a poet, an artist
you knighted fearless & fierce
we exchange compliments like endearments
building one another
to a field golden
to stand in a moment of intimacy that heralds
the end of summer

June 24th

hummingbird moths tumble from your lips
pausing momentarily to set fire to sage
dashing to afternoon tea on Mars
my movements slow
breath slows
as if
the wrong
the wrong turn
the wrong breath will break the connection
the line does break
sudden & violent in its gap
only the moths remain
dancing in their discovery of blue
you call back
once more weaving a spell I am too timid to define

though I've made for myself a new garment
from the colors of Spring
and grown accustomed to the taste of whiskey & wind
though I have colored in the boundary line bold & tangerine
enlisting blue jays to guard my bones
your light is heart's home

Saturday, July 21, 2018

to the wild

i do not miss you
either of you
of yellow sun & amber moths
my bones now
ageless & more than bones more than breath
replete with the weight of my heart
beating its rhythm in paisley velvet swirls
its cadence sweeping--a cello hums in ponder rich & unpredictable
a light glows in the story
placed there by my own hand this past tuesday
everything lost becomes found
everything gray becomes celebrated
i am young once again
held by a white birch tree against the sweep of sorrow & love
i am a child of the sky
complete & tangerine 

Wednesday, July 11, 2018


the color of wanting 
verdant set against a swath of azure-dome 
there is movement & morning 
touch & go 
this life not embroidered upon the bone 
but set afire in the longing 
leaf set afloat in a mountain stream 
river rocks my home 
blue jays realm 
to rest in love's welcome gloam 

lost becomes found

divinity exposed in chameleon waking
as tannins pool from the crack of this tangerine morning 
somewhere in 1972, self was tucked behind a ethan allen sofa 
lost to dust motes & decay 
remembered not at all
widens the crack 
days & nights ....brushed to being 
removed & remarked upon 
dust is polished to a shine replete with diamonds
matter transformed settles and becomes her heart
no mask, no chameleon shifting 
bowling green to evergreen to sapphire blue 
throw the chameleon to the fire 
hold-fast to this tenuous thread of now 
hello cherry-amaranth heart

Thursday, June 28, 2018


i have found a bolt of cotton to wrap about me
between bones & blood
along the meridian lines
tucked against a saffron dawn
muggy & dense this day
as i sit insulated by this renouncing
this suffrage pressed & pounded

the softest things are the hardest to penetrate

did you know the first desserts were candies of raw honeycomb & dates

( i agree with you )
maybe it's in the knowledge of both:
the customary & the confection
that lets us consider the potatoes & the pie
wholeness is found in their contrast
the m.c.escher of it all--how while examining one thing
you suddenly realize
something else lies there beyond that line--
no negative space
both equally important in their own unique way
the grace & glory of the everyday vs. the stuff of dreams
black & white
shadows & light
the honey-bee to the frog
the box of paints to shades of grey
the bruise & the blush
dinner to dessert
coming to love the contrast in life & love has defined the beat of my days
learning patience
how to fold myself inside out
tethering myself to the expected with a warrior's sense of obligation
the desire to be present
to the role, the rules & the respect to this place called comfortable

( which is only so ... )

all the while knowing that no one ever learns or grows in that place called comfortable
no one ever takes mighty cosmic leaps while in stasis
on the edge between the contrast is where the real journey begins
where bone becomes a blossom & where trust becomes a golden blade of sunshine
-- an apt description--
having to get to the other side & to love regardless
to risk playing the fool
to risk ego & significance
to love
through the stillness & the reality
excavating to the core of tangible while knowing there are things we can not see
and trusting that beam of truth
trusting the almost inhuman intimacy that wraps our moments in blue
trusting the pull, the surrender, the acceptance, the taste
the heat & the snow
trusting the contrast
the mystery
where wholeness lies...
obligation & release
shadows & light
fire & air
earth to sky
dinner to dessert

in the box of paints

296 days

these voilet-ringed hours
fierce & far-flung
missing becomes thunderous
in direct proportion to the tangerine yearn
lines erase

love remains the same ...

Friday, June 8, 2018

prayer #60718

there could be more equanimity
more amethyst mornings & feathered things
wish i could hum away the clouds that obscure
joy from your mind
wish there were no poverty
of things that darken & blind
wish there were no disparity
of perspectives shadowbox lines
golden echoes rising
slumber sweet surprising
breezes tempered
waters stilled

We come with diamonds rough--hidden
buried along sinew & bone
we strive for what is forbidden
nobody knows
the one thing more that
will break us
bend us
make us ...

Oh Child of the Stars
of what & who we are;
we are of
sky & night
tender green roots
in flight
vessel & spark
blue jay calling amongst the trees
a leaf
of dust
and trust

love the wish


Thursday, June 7, 2018

of stasis & steps ...

i am moved by rainfall
courted by lilacs
discussed by leathered gypsies around campfires
fired up at dusk amongst aspen & age
embers burning the silk of our resistance
distance lies only in the disconnect
dormant is the dream in direct proportion to wakefulness
ease into this summer fire
ease into allowing the possible
love is only as small as your container:
dance with the morning
taste the rain on your tongue

be still

Tuesday, June 5, 2018


i dropped my words amongst the cabbages & romaine on saturday
it rained
one inch
one sleep
filled with lightening's thunder
as the words scurried under the marigolds for cover
boom boom
they should have tried the basil as the leaves are wider
but words are sometimes at a loss
i wish they would discover the lavender or
the orchard
where some night creature delights in the serviceberry's new leaves
light chartreuse with a touch of green
real green
as if dipped in eternal spring
my words are evermore spring
waiting to be found
consumed by the emptiness of three o'clock in the afternoon
blue blue sky  

scene three

everywhere a tingling pocket temple
rock words paving
lines define
paths taken

shine thrown from a moon beam
mirrored in ink waters possible
the quartz city rising rising 
lives scripted


one never can quite predict
the play

the sudden pull toward a new line
a forgotten curve
heart blue silver kissed lightening

ArT by Marta Pelrine-Bacon

Monday, May 14, 2018

after the weary comes

i write yellow
butter-canary light
upon the page white
kestrel perched upon a branch
shielded from the rain
watchful dawn's sigh
algorithim why
jesses dangling
bells still
checkered daffodil
yellow morning flight 


turn me younger
paint the inside of
my mouth with ink clementines & diamonds
drip sunshine blonde upon these lips 
sit it down
in morning's sweet marigold mist 
viola velvet sorrow'd taste 
turn me inside out 
abide beside me fluid and awake 
allow the cut of joy's remembrance 
to close the wound 
halt the spin 
staunch the blood 

Thursday, May 10, 2018

... then the Burlington Rooms

The Stewart Gallery is jammed to the brim with every imaginable item on the planet. 
And Art. 
A tired, old dropped ceiling stretches over a 1960's striped use-to-be-shag carpet, and several pieces of Goodwill furniture line the room on the main floor. 
Smells emanate from another time-weary & distant. 
Florals mix with plaids, mix with more florals with a good dose of faux leather and folding chairs. 
NPR drifts out from some piece of radio art: dozens of battered discarded boom boxes and radios of every size are creeping out of a silver trash can. 
Dave's shadow boxes are everywhere--church alter bits & pieces paired with Camel cigarette boxes, cut-outs of 40's pin-up girls and used cigars. 
Brilliant landscape photos of Nebraska are interspersed alongside bold primary oils of....
Women on the street, women at bars & coffee shops, women mingling together.
Women in various shades of undress. 
Short black hair & blond hair mostly interspersed with a smattering of redheads. Short skirts revealing pastel panties. Nipples peak from open necklines and occasionally a small Jack Russell pokes about in them somewhere. 
Dave's speciality, Dave's love--is Women. 
The way a student loves his teachers, the way a pastor loves his congregation. It is an observant love; smooth, easy studied and directional. Strangely not creepy. His mind constantly working the medium; acrylics, pastels air-brushed, #2s, mixed media. 
Clarity is gained as we travel thru the gallery. This was my 5th time at Dave's I think. 
Not always open. 
Nor are the upstairs rooms always ready for guests, but tonight 
the red light is on. 
You angle up the building in a series of stairs and landings. The carpet underfoot well-trodden constantly changing from one color to another. 
All the while--Art.
A massive oil depicting a buxom women lounging on a black sofa with a cat crawling across her hefty thigh, across from a huge canvas upon which various symbols weave together. The walls covered. Not figuratively, literally. 
it's almost to much to take in.
On the first landing--a surprise. 
A chair of mine sits next to a table with vintage playboys. This chair was supposed to be a project of Angela's and mine, but we lost interest and I told her to find it a good home. Here it resides.
I got in trouble for carving the name "Wood" in that chair when I was 16. Funny.
Two more flights of stairs take us thru Dave's office where cigar smoke lies thick and lovely. Some of my favorite art is in this room: beautiful art boxes with windows to other worlds, tribal masks, a new large oil of a naked women in a sweeping red hat adorns an entire wall.
You walk outside--crossing a small black railed bridge to an open door, 40's jazz emanates from within & low lights welcome. 
Walking into the first room, there is small black bar on your left with tiny lights lining the top, behind which a negligee'd mannequin offers her hand. Various bottles of booze & wine litter the end of the bar. Illumination from numerous glowing art pieces pop about this diminutive room. Some quite odd & nonsensical, others bawdy. Along the right wall is this fantastic surreal canvas, 4' by 4'--a recreation Dave has done of Pieter Brugel's Dutch Proverbs: a village of naked women reside here in gold & brown. Dave painted this years ago, and somewhere in this metamorphosis of a brothel, there is list of them all. 
(if your very drunk, it is riotous fun to see how many you can find)
You step into a parlor on your right and the lights are a bit brighter here, where some 60 black & white nudes adorn the walls where a scattering of unmatched pieces of furniture stand at attention. Above the door is a small sign, 'serving those who serve those who serve'. 
Next to each sofa are dave's notebooks, where he has taken vintage penthouse & playboys reassembling them into political-comments & commercial parodies cutting & pasting--collaging volumes. 
The room is relaxing, again one smells the lingering cigar here and impatience.
An ashtray you would find in your grandpa's house sits there on the broken wooden coffee table with a cigarette lying there anticipating the unknown. 
Across the room from an old brocade sofa, is a sink, for washing prior to one's visit.  The entrance to the rooms lies straight ahead appearing as a tunnel of scarlet softly glowing like a slow beating heart.
You walk thru the narrow door-frame into a branched hallway--small & tight. You have 4 directions to explore. Then you stop, realizing the hallway itself is a room. Painted a deep red, it is shrouded portraits of women: gorgeous & enchanting--some pastel with air-brushed perfection, some in harsh detail yet winsome & bewitching. Never will I convey the sheer extent of the Art itself. Staggering. 
A sharp left takes you into the bathroom--a naked mannequin stands behind the beige & pink shower curtain, holding out her red lace panties to you. Rubber wellingtons stand at the sink, as if some soldier just vaporized back to Normandy leaving a sprig of daisies poking out the top. There are remnants of life everywhere: tooth paste, again from another time, glasses and various sundries. 
Art conceals the wall: oils & charcoals predominately. Most of the women are complacent & poised, some convey more than a hint of lingering sadness...lending an aesthetic of allure & forgotten glamour. 
Heading out of the bathroom, straight ahead is a dressing room, or the 'undressing room' as a small dangling sign reads. A clothing rack hold numerous vintage clothing options for your standard lady of the night: gowns, robes, dresses with a dresser holding powder puffs and jewelry scattered about with some small measure of design & organization. Placed exactly where Dave wants them, yet inviting play. 
Stepping out of that space further down the hall to the right are two bedrooms.
In the left one an ugly table lamp blazes red from below a street window--Edith Piaf plays from the antique record player. A small half-made twin bed cuddles into the corner, bedding turned down. Around the room lies neglected treasures from a life: purse's, cigarette cases, jewelry and makeup--lots of makeup,
open and used. That's what it smells like in this room--makeup. A past.
There is old floral wallpaper drifting from the chunks of plaster enabling the Art to rule the room. More of the same--overwhelming.
Women posed on concrete pillars, women laying on beds--the colors though all different astoundingly blend and swirl together creating a feeling of warmth and entombed desire.
The last bedroom is distinguished by the Raggedy Ann doll on the full sized bed. A clean quilt covers the bed, over which women look down from their various frames, some gilt, some bleached wood, scratched & re-used re-invented to create this life-sized shadow box of a brothel. Browns dominate this room, shades, tints and textures in the canvases. The smooth floral carpet underfoot has an almost Hollywood elegance to it, and then you notice how worn it is how thin & delicate.
It's hard to leave. Withdrawing one just keeps contemplating--observing almost expecting one of these masterly created women of pencil & oil to turn her chic expression and watch you 
... trying to entice you back
to linger & admire them once again--these goddesses from another time.
Thin, thick, bold or faded--they seem to celebrate companionship
and they take delight in your gaze. 
Anticipating the next visit to the Burlington Rooms.