And I see her, the girl of my crutched dreams -
La Gioconda smoking a pipe that’s not a pipe,
sipping absinthe from a fur-lined cup
that tickles her moustache.

We miss the train that leaves the fireplace
but it’s raining businessmen so we stay inside,
smooch to the Broadway Boogie Woogie,
sleeping in this tent with en suite Mutt urinal.

We’ve learnt our lesson. Abstraction came too easy
for Brancusi, the universe already constipated with objects:
he fed his two white dogs lettuce floating in milk.
Schiele was more realistic – he couldn’t afford the paint,

he said, when the judge who burnt his work in public asked
“Why choose models with amputated feet?” Our millennium
opened late for staff training. By the time we wake to
Turner’s blazing sunrise, it’s all on video. Our taut bodies.