NICK MOORE | Modern Art

Some guys like blondes, others like brunettes.

Me? I like Modern art.

My legs get wobbly for Cy Twombly.

I lose some stability when I see Calder’s stabiles,

And if you wanna catch me then trawl with some Dali

because that surrealist crispness

makes me lose my mind faster than a hot-ass temptress.

My drool drips like clocks in a desert oasis.

 

My overwhelmed brain turns off again

on again off again on again there’s some Mondrian.

That kid was de stijl’in, plasticism his invention;

the simplicity of his red squares dares to claim artistic perfection.

This visual stimulation is getting too much for my dome;

I try to take a break avoid the syndrome—

But here it is, Stendhal’d!

Passed out in the Met between Greece and Rome.

 

I’m caught up with the tight, the bodacious, the movement’s latest,

is that your impression?

Well I’ll tell you, Monet renamed his profession.

I’ve seen caricatures and lilies, I know him, please.

And I don’t think of him when I look at Manet’s bar scene.

 

On that note I bet you’d like to throw out Van Gogh.

Am I blind to the beginning of the impressionist portfolio? Oh no.

I have beheld the petals of his sunflower halo.

I drink his thick paint strokes like he ate the chrome yellow.

 

When I come back from my daze, there’s more on my list.

I go for a Chuck Close-up of some photorealist

Pointillist, perfectionist, wall-sized acrylic portrait.

Before I can get bored I’ll ogle at some Warhol,

Walk over to Mao and be floored.

Silkscreen pictures of figures ten yards tall.

Think of Kennedy’s assassination scene seeing

Jackie’s frame-by-frame reaction to the gruesome bloodstream.

 

For a cool-down I walk around the gift shop before I leave town,

But I remember that I forgot Edward Hopper:

The best on my agenda.

I search blocks for Nighthawks and the house on the tracks.

Solemn scenes give pause to my sight so taxed.

 

So does your best girl contemplate the human condition?

Mine’s got a catalogue number, I dial it on my lobster phone;

disregarding Greek thirds, I wait for the tone.

She descends the staircase nude before I find out she’s home.

Then I’ll ask, do you want to stroll through the Rothko Room?

Dine on Degas, catch the last showing of Un Chien Andalou?

Like the Übermensch, I’ll carry her over puddles.

When the eye is slit, I take her hand and we cuddle.

This might not make sense, but don’t misconstrue:

Pickings were ripe in 1932.

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