Something Boring, Something Boxy and Blue
Thou still unravish’d sculpture of eye soreness,
Thou Barnumbia-child of grave and wasted dime,
Art historian, who canst thus express
An artist statement more sweetly than this rhyme:
What boxy-humbug’d legend haunts about thy shape
Of deans or morals, or of both,
In street Median or the gates of Earl?
What men or gods are these? What professors loth?
What mad ‘abstract’ pursuit? What struggle to escape?
What shades of blue and rectangles? What wild ecstasy?
Heard sculptures are sweet, but those unheard
Are sweeter; therefore, ye jagged shape, stand on;
Not to the sensual eye, but, more endear’d,
Pipe to the pleasant aesthetics of no one:
Fair youth, between the median, thou canst not leave
Thy clunky structure, nor ever can those streets be bare;
Bold Lover, never, never canst thou kiss,
Though passing beyond the gate yet, do not grieve;
She cannot fade, though thou hast not thy blue bulky bliss,
For ever wilt thou love, and she be there!
