Arckembolio, tell me
where is the darkest of holes?
For us-the poets-the surrealists,
no more than gloomy ghouls
dreary aches await for illusion
is the remedy we make!

To disguise a mistress
in a painter’s shawl
capturing the grit in the hues
and hand I hold,
the tales so tall, Arckembolio
the art of it all!  To the very end
all good men will fall...