or An Art Critique
Well, this triptych explains
how a magic trick is done
without telling the process.
I'd compare it to balancing
air with weightless molecules or the
impetuous ecstasy when Hydrogen
meets Oxygen.
The artist's airy and fluid approach
being a demanding style
starts with the first panel,
followed by a second
with a third for a grand finale.
It has a storybook effect with a
beginning, a middle and a unhappy
un-Hollywoodian ending.
It reminds me of when I visited Venice
my nose misted the glass
separating me inches away from
The Garden of Earthly Delights,
a painting by Hieronimous Bosch,
except that instead of feeling bliss
I could smell the naked arses
minutely painted in the most
of graphic and demented poses.
At the end of my 10-minute staring
I had a feeling of having a real whiff
of fire and brimstone religious art.
Of course it could have also been
a metaphysical experience of plain art
depending on the panache
of my writing.
Had I painted this scene and smeared
feces in the right places, another critic
might've called it a pile of
neo-post-expressionist mounds
crowning a dull artistic career.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem