Why photograph a fact when you can catch A nightmare, be a Jackson Pollock or A Dalí at his Druid weirdest? Snatch A depth of fanged subconscious and then pour Some paint of guts across your canvas. Real Is boring. Ditch it. Art becomes mirage And mystic queasiness inside a squeal. Eschew the common or make a collage Of it that churns up nausea. The key Trick is to mix up meaning or to ban It. Spread some purple fantasy and brie Across a beach. Jesus on a divan With hydrogen bomb mushroom clouds would do Or cover some swallows with Elmer’s Glue. Phillip Whidden is a poet published in America, England, Scotland (and elsewhere) in book form, online, and in journals. He has also had an article on Wilfred Owen’s “Dulce et Decorum est” published in The New Edinburgh Review.