escher poetry — [ζ] :: 7

a colourful cauldren
a not moretti
a dancing mother

at least that’s how
i misinterpreted them
pigeon–holed sculptures
dead in the dismal light

they set the mood
my flesh to be sliced
by the muse crying
on Sullivan’s bust

I’d presumed
she was imposed
by a later artist
but no

my heart was drizzle
when i entered the national

i could not get past the holbien
which so dominates
all the galleries

i had to leave

this was new
i even don’t like the damned painting
its doomed annoying shadowskull

don’t view high art
on an empty stomach
like me
you might be sliced
and slaughtered
by a dead artist