Once upon a midnight dreary, while I wandered weak and weary,
Over a many cracked and cobbled section of the Brooklyn Bor'(ough)
I was shaken, nay, arrested, by the sight of naked breasted
Giant ladies glaring proudly at me through a gallery door.
`'Tis bewitchery,' I babbled, `glaring through that gallery door -
For my eye doth crave for more!'
Ah, what underestimation, for within my destination
Lay a vision unlike any I had ever seen before.
Bodies twisted, deconstructed; while vast throngs of the inducted
Drank a suspect crimson liquid and whirled madly round the floor.
All enthralled by "Bridge" and "Kindred" as they whirled around the floor -
Wanting ever, ever more.
"Captured", "Gone", "Untitled (Claire)" - intricately rendered hair,
Skin that glowed as though alive - yet was both outer flesh and core.
Hands and feet that opened redly, all joined in the rapt'rous medly
Of this exhibition stunning, and for hours did I pore,
Over Jenny Morgan's paintings, on the upper gall'ry floor,
And downstairs- ah! Even more!
But "Abrasions'" strokes and sanding, still are standing, still are standing,
On their canvases - and calling to me - beckoning me o'er.
And so, be it hell or heaven (since it's open twelve to seven
every day except for Tuesday) back to Like the Spice's door
I'll return. I'll see "Abrasions" and stand rooted to the floor
Gazing raptly - evermore!
