covers

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.