Elouise

Paintings are my scene, museums have a lonely grace, I often hear them scream, they stare from tenuous canvas, it really is my fame, the world's my caravan, from summer to late season, in gas fired winter palaces, I often smell the sea, heaven if you look aghast, at my perfumed embrace, you are like M Duchamp, the rain outside teams, petals trace names on graves, pavements run like streams, unshaven waiters pass, cognac to my place, no café’ and croissants repast, for this well-oiled face.