escher poetry — [ζ] :: 7

a colourful cauldren
a not moretti
a dancing mother

at least that’s how
i misinterpreted them
pigeon–holed sculptures
ruined by dismal light

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

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

my heart was drizzle
when i entered the national

i could not get past the holbien
that so dominates
its own and surrounding galleries

i had to leave

this has never happened before
i don’t even like the damned painting
its doomed annoying shadowskull

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