in the eye of the beholder

Answered in the party room with a dug out pit
I requested government funding
and erected the anti erection
the seven levels of Dante
my nouveau riche art museum
with a drill bit
the size of Paul Bunyan's toothpick!
We enter by a vestibule, the narthexian impasse
gotsa hab a key!
To the elevator of dreams a horror station
that only goes
down
down
down
donations are expected at the desk
don't froget yer brochure!
The first level is a big round room filled with doors
and a yellow box painted in the center, for you to step into
then from the white walls open the doors
and people
out of work people
hungry people
stream out of doors and surround you
and make wooly booly noises
then exit.
They are behind the doors.
Follow your directions, please, return to the elevator.
Level 2
The walls are mauve and the people crawl
on the Velcro walls in mauve suits...
they are maggots...
a view from the center bench is nauseating.
Room 3 is down again, it is all down
and noisy people play noisy instruments
badly.
They don't take requests
I don't think they know you exist.
The elevator will not skip levels
The only way out is to go
down
down
down.
Level four and the walls are closing in
and the air is colder
There are no sweaters.
In the distance you hear a dog barking
And in the distance another dog answers
That is all there is, that and the cold.
On level five the entire elevator empties
We all stand together
touching
rubbing
Trying to stay warm,
but the center keeps moving out to the edges
and warmth is short lived.
Legs dangle from the ceiling
shoeless wiggling toes
the living legs from above.
Reenter the elevator.
The worst art museum ever
at level 6 babies are crying
children are walking in circles
they are wearing beige and holding
the walls, never finding a way out
somewhere their mothers drink tea
and wonder what is missing
in their lives.
Now it is the general consensus
what is art,
and who decides?
A blue box,
a blue painted box
mounted in a white room
with a blue box
painted blue and mounted in a white room
Whoever does it first
can call himself an artist
She can shoot herself in the head
with a paint gun
full of prisms
all the colors from our sun.
And mount it on a wall
in a white room.
That, my friends, is art.
On level seven,
she stands
beheaded and beckoning
with 20 industrial coolers blowing air
cold
And the only way out is to traverse the room
passing the artist
it is her final request
to climb into the yellow painted box
where her prism head smiles
she gave everything for her art
and climb the spiral staircase.
Please visit our souvenir shop on the main level.