do museums exist for men?
does art only know the women?
where are those crinkled, collapsing sacs of flesh torn and asunder under things heavier than water and lighter than the sun?
who draws their balls like rubber comets?
when will someone demonstrate the sexless unsuccessful, the losers, the nobodies, those that deny categorization for they are so average so as to be indistinct?
what of the male nipples felled by the low hanging hairs?
what of the lousy thighs and grotesque bellies?
what of the painters who often fall to the same fate they deny undeniably?
i am unsure. i went to museums and thought only of a woman far away, how nice she would be to paint, to be paint herself with her form that could never be contained by a museum or by men like me.