Sonnet from the Porch de Guise

[fr_defenestrato]

A CURATOR OF AWFUL OBJECTS, I
I'm unapologetically inclined
to render tribute to the most intrib-
uable among aesthetic forms: my mind,
untouched by rein or shackle, flaunts its lib-
erty to contemplate the head of Christ,
upturned as if beseeching rescue from
its velvet prison, or perhaps enticed
to join in canine poker in the some-
what brighter frame next door; while speakers wheeze
the Macarena and the Safety Dance
in endless duel re which is more displeas-
ing to the ear; and both my shirt and pants
are Dacron plaid. But what's that? My eyes! — Ow!
Thomas Kincade? Oh, burn that fucker NOW.