It is a wonderland
of wondering eyes.
Strange people
walk on the red tile floor
to explore
the doors
to artists’ perceptions
and projected expressions.

White furry feet,
following first
my eyes find falling fury
like a solar explosion
of violent ginger on yellow orange.

Then slightly concealed
I see a surreal reflection of religious will,
as a beautiful female body
lay limp, ready to be baptized
by the appropriated
white guy version of Jesus.

My favorite thus far
is green vertigo
a swirling portal of
multi-colored abstraction
guarded by ruby tinted sentinels
on either side.

Further down the rabbit hole
me and Alice go
to white rabbit dress
by Felicia Olin.

Till, ticking clocks
cannot delay
and I must redraft
this poem about
the art on display,
and save the rest
for another day.

In pubs with bar flies.
Kronenburg, Becks, Carling, Stella Artois and Fosters,
Dancing in our blood,
Utterly inured; we are endured by all:
The solipsism most profound.

And when Johnnie, Jack and Jameson join,
The sentimental and the morbid
Are conjoined.

And ****!
In the custody of beer halls,
The shadows that draw, fade,
And calls – e’en Death’s! -- are put on hold!
No time; instead, before the last, another pint.

For in this hallowed inn,
Drinking what’s in the glass,
And espousing the glow within,
Cares regress.

No woes,
Or loaded psyches,
For when the pressure builds,
The best: a jet of yellow bliss,
Relieves the pain,
On Armitage Shanks' porcelain.