Poem at the Louvre, Paris

Before I begin

I do dare

Disclaim:

Read with

Discretion,

Lest you find

Offense,

At the jibes

Of a poem.

The prudent

Man

Brings his sword

To battle and

His drinking

Hat to a

Good tale.

Now, hear a

Poem

Titled:

At the Louvre…

 

At the Louvre

One can see

A great and

Wondrous

Variety,

I start with

the Greeks.

Naked dude,

Naked child,

Old naked dude,

Hairy naked dude,

Man in skirt,

Taking care

The wind doesn’t

Show

His balls.

Boobs and butts,

Pricks

Uncircumcised small,

Uncircumcised large…

Ugh!

 

He dials the extension to the Louvre concierge…

“Excusez-moi…yes…I’d like to report a streaker in the building. He is very hairy.”

The reply is somewhat muffled in broken English…

“Oui monsieur, that is the fawn of Saturn, he’s been running wild like Will Roberts at the Smithsonian, I mean Teddy Roosevelt, ever since Diana took his fig. Whatever that means, he can’t live without it. Let me call Diana…”

There is a brief hold, muffled steps, and then comes a loud braying and bellowing followed by a reverberating horn blast.

“…Oui, Diana, can you get the fawn down from the balustrade? He is showing his testicles to everyone again.”

 

Now into

The underground

Where the darkness

Pervades,

One finds

Islam,

Angered Moorish

Blades glimmer by

Hauberks of

Gold,

Colored blue-bowls

Dustify

In musky mosques,

Bitterly are they

That eat the West,

It is no peach.

War drummers

Hold council,

Violent looks

About the cold

Air.

Little is

Whiteman

Welcomed!

Salahoodini,

I see you.

If they kill

Democracy,

There will be

No peace

For

Refugees.

 

Now upstairs

I walk

To Neoclassicism,

So grand

I’m bankrupt.

David has red hair?

Pale is the white

Breast.

Far too

Extravagant is

The confluence of

Jesus and

The Greek.

Let be

Moderation,

It is without

That we begin

To grow

Within.

Wealth implodes

Like a fat mans

Belly full

Of bacon.

Dickens had

It right,

Great is the

Fiction

Boasting

Flamed-tongue.

…Satyr returns to the stage to make an eloquent afterthought…

“It is said by wise men that wealth can be very good for some and entirely bad for others. To one man it heals and another it kills. To one, it clothes and feeds, to another, it poisons.”

…All clap for Satyr, who has done a fine job. He exits stage left…

The song

Carries on,

Set the dials

To century XIX.

Darker grows

Wisdom

In wealth.

The light flickers

Out.

The Westwinds

Cease!

Sea of revenge,

Cruel war

Of Macbeth,

Drunkenness

Breeding

Violence,

Terror of

Flames!

Yet, for

Every

Dark day,

Light seeps

Through the

Cloudiest glass,

Saying:

“Here I am.”

 

I switch my course

To make a claim

About art in general:

Far better it is

To look on

A beauty

Than to stare

At stills.

I could spend

All my

Lazy

Afternoons

Gazing on

Her rosy cheeks

Behind

White curtains

While hearing

The birdsong.

…Chirp chirp…chirp chirp…An old man is heard grumbling and the purple curtains close whilst the audience gives out great shouts and cheers. The fawn comes out and takes a low bow of reverence before the crowd.

 

 

IMG_5597
Marble penis, you are to be regarded above all else. So proud you are of nakedness, that I feel so shameless. Amen, amen and God be with us all.

 

 

 

 

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