Your first encounter with his mind
wearing knee breeches, opaque stockings,
a silk shirt with holes in the front
(smeared with dung)
You had a fascination
for his practice of Candaulism.
He impressed you.
Crutches, a representation of
mankind’s need for religion,
with support of persistence of memory
and three dancing watches.
Rigid and unyielding,
worn by the masses
forever in haste.
A moat around your home.
He carefully placed crucifixes
in a room for adoration,
as ants crawl round symbolizing death.
He is The Hallucinogenic Toreador,
coupled with the Venus de Milo.
Above his bed hangs a painting titled,
Portrait of My Dead Brother,
(although they never met).
Like a Raphaelesque Head Exploding,
Lifting canvases through
a slit in the floor where a
Dematerialization Near the Nose of Nero
is standing below a Portrait of
Gala With Two Lamb Chops Balanced on Her Shoulder.
"It is mostly with your blood, Gala, that I paint my pictures”