THE STATUE OF HIERONYMUS BOSCH
Look down Hieronymus:
the blonde kids dancing at your feet;
barrel organs churning songs out
against your deaf and cheesed-off ears.
Blink blind, stone eyes,
dig the electric pleasure garden,
frame the nuclear canal
and sigh you weary statue you.
nose drips with rain.
Drunk, we piss on the past,
slash and splash against the dark canvas.
Bosch, we still play the games.
I catch an angel barmaid’s eye
and swallow the blueness of it
in my aching head.
Beauty lodges overnight in the skull.
missiles haloing your frown of a brow;
clouds crashing over the market square.
They’re building the greatest nightmare ever around you,
but your hands have grown too stiff to paint.