Children's Art

Van Gogh is back from hell with his blasphemous eyes.
Look, in a nimbus of stammering, hot gold light
A carousel speeds with a freight of inflammable girls
On horses with gasping nostrils and berserk curls.

A vision like this must be nearly too much to bear:
Behold the bug-eyed steeds and the poor, damned riders
And the carousel manager shrieking he’s busted the brakes:
Everything shudders and throbs and so searingly aches
One can easily see how the artist could lop off an ear.

And look: in the background a Ferris wheel catches fire.
O insight to hell by some eight-year-old or other,
You show us how we shall be done to a turn as well:
A sailor hurls over the side his dehydrating sister,
A barker explodes in a starry, skin-colored blister,
And out of the uppermost cart, in a sizzle of tears,
Rockets some unspecified person’s red-hot mother.