If by art is not meant metaphor
for some manner of sex organ arousal
the use is likely lie – or the perspective
resides twisted in a dwelling deep in the land
that plays the same hymn’s chorus
composed for normal and sane peoples’ picnics
that span an afternoon before
the regular season kicks off.
This view is born from a visit

to a local art festival
where I became forced to confront the question
of just how devoted I am
to what is called Art, as the piece that most
transfixed my eye was the toasted sculpture
bending over so I almost saw public tits –
so maybe it’s time to cease the fibs
and admit this heart’s happy home is in
an Austrian’s perverted neighborhood.


About Timmy the Scribbler

Love to write all kinds of stuff I love writing so many different kinds of stuff it is a constant struggle to narrow the focus to a manageable handful and let the others go. But a few years ago I dipped my fingers into a poetry pie and of all my uncertainties, one thing that is no uncertainty is that it is one passion that must remain, so maybe that's the one. I do dearly delight in chopping up fictional works into stanzas and syllables.
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6 Responses to covers

  1. yeoldefoole says:

    sweet tanned pears, swinging
    two by two – a Noahs ark
    of summer linen



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