Falling for you, or at least in front of you,

I measure my length, fathoming myself,

Along the independent variable of time or narrative

I find masturbation necessary but insufficient
Stand on a chair and look at that stain long enough

You will see the Blessed Virgin, they say

But all I see is genitalia, admittedly wrapped

In a pink nightie and dark velvet smock
Go like this, and you'll see its little nose

Sniffing the scent of spikenards

Bertolt Brecht noticed something similar

Now, that's what I call art.