Love Jart

You had me at bigarrure,
pronounced unpretentiously wrong,
but charmingly unselfed-aware,
competent translator that you unbecome.
For these are juggaloed things of which I am made,
bricolage, squat thug of mood, spurn and error
of Eros, exceptionally poorly-aimed,
juicy as a Texan steak, lambent, rude
as a November evening in October.
And bigarrure is the minds of painters
queerly calm enough to consider the cosmos
a mere collation, feat of the thrown-together,
which is the everything. Heraclitan, poofy.
I mean the bigarrure of Kandinsky,
Frankenthaler, Kansas, oh  I must stop
this pretentiousness that quacks like a duck,
have a text I must take. It is another,
and by another I mean morning.