Overkill, or Contemplating Paul-Émile Borduas’ Massifs déchiquetés, 1954

An hour in the gallery

was more than enough for you.

We only know the goldfish

when the revolving door gets stuck.

People watching people watching

people. In the canvas or the marble

or the woman pouring coffee in an urn.

It seemed so sacrosanct—

a place you cannot sneeze;

and we pondered which was worse—

the itching or the scratch

with a pruning saw. Why is it only

art when in museums—not the shed?

The mice Automatistes.

The woman on our heels, caked

like Tammy Faye. Perhaps she wants to

gauge opinionations, how we score

from one-to-ten, if we’re as philistine as

everybody else, critiquing like the anvil

to a gnat—Beaujolais is worth it—

the rub-a-dubs must refrain their

grubby hands;

or the rage I’ll take

to love, while the typist by

the window spots

an oddity of life—

a man who’s plunging past her

to the pavement far below,

like the one on 9/11

we can’t unsee,

thinking the spill of what’s

inside will be the loveliest

of sights, like the splats of

Borduas,

for radiance only

flows in one direction, like water

from the billow or

the seeping of your tea,

how banal the cup had

been, the sidewalk like a

Victor Hugo novel—

right before it’s swept.

Children know what’s messy

is a leap beyond the sanctity

of walls—what else can

colour be

but bleeding out, un œuf that’s

dropping headlong to

the street, unable to buck

the trend.

Andreas Gripp

October 19, 2026

Painting: Paul-Émile Borduas, Massifs déchiquetés, 1954