We see these men
combed by a whirlwind sky.
Hammered into their globular eyes – the drooping sacks,
the tears. This slow Van Gogh gathered by wind-weed skies
dies in the picture-gallery spectators’ glance from
that wild child, Munched on a horror of immortal agony,
whose schizophrenic, goat-eared fathers
dance out Bacchic horror
in chalices of blood – their own.
You see the picture-gallery spectators’ glance –
approval, or disgust, or – worse – apathy.
Painting or poetry, music, too! –
the nymphomaniac distortions of Tchaikovsky’s scores – please now,
although to say, “Ours is essentially a tragic age”
(because the cameratic, cinematic, TV-atic brush
wires pictures whirs pictures shutters pictures) is a goat-beard
of exaggeration simply cut-put.
Let me not go too far to view, view, view,
lest viewing be the habit, habit, habit.
Among these eyes are brothels, Van Gogh’s hammered entrances, red-litten crucifixes.
From that scream clawing the canvas is the drill
in the mind of Munch. That man,
striking the cold cloth in the institute for the insane, is Dadd,
his father’s murderer,
his name mocking the appalling deed, the patricide of criminal depletion,
his helpless pun.