I hear they hoard Picasso’s like diamonds.
Excess is common—
escargot at a diner, Parisian no more,
cheapened slime beneath
industrial grade lighting.
Women
drawn and quartered, all cut up,
chaos-con-cube
hung from the wall of some
split-level apartment
where I hear a man
hanged himself
(and his children might, too*)
Their bitterness
licks at the paint
in ordinary strokes
driving down the value of,
what once was,
a masterpiece.