Stolen Cream

Before the rush came. Before the Christie’s men in black escorted the collectors, the rich, the famous, the infamous, and the wasted, with umbrellas from the extended cars on the rainy street to the covered building of thousands, I ran. I swiftly ran inside, all dressed in artists attire; black pants, black shirt, black shoes, black ski mask, as fast as I could, I ran. Swiftly with a gentle crowbar in black-gloved hand, I ran to the center. There in the glass case at waist height was the magnificently lit art. Flesh toned rubber and silk blues and yellows with laser guided video for my home entertainment system. With a flash and a crack I smashed the thin, yet elegant, glass covering. No one in sight, not a soul hears the breakage, the symbols, I smash. With my huge powerful downward motion, one swoosh of angry art and emotion. The glass broken, not a cut, not a curve, not a cream. I leave the flesh and satin and silk and flowers alone. Today I just grab the disc. The secret code, the pleasure dome, and provide you all with video cameras on this advertising day! As swiftly as I ran in, I run out. With laserdisc under my arm and crowbar swinging overhead, like a wild boar from Lord Of The Flies, or a huge black King-Kong, I run. Straight pass the umbrella sculptures waiting to come alive, I run into the darkness to bootleg my way to stardom, to surrender to the darkness, to deface Picasso and become an art thief of my own obsession.

© 1999 David Greg Harth

99.05.20.04:49:44 @ 296 New York City