No Growth Hormones
Elizabeth Glixman

The devil made Toulouse short
He broke his legs and never let them rise like trees
Toulouse wanted to let his arms wave in the air
Instead they became attached to a pencil and he drew
Instead they became attached to whiskey and he drank
the red windmill the Moulin Rouge
delighted in his size
He was a freak among freaks
painted ladies
And sword swallowers could have been there
But no it was Toulouse and his devils
splashing color all over the place
The great artist
Monsieur Toulouse Lautrec the joie de vivre
The short man

Monsieur Comte
Do you know where your son is
He is in the brothel drawing
I have things to do
Like what, Monsieur
I must hunt I must the fox
What about your son
He is in the brothel painting busy
Leave him there
It is better than if we sent him down the river at birth
Deformed in spirit
He is a small aristocrat
Gone stray

Return to Archive