Inconclusive provocations       bio-lit

the dull chute tent       of Emin's sex life,

1963-1995,        chummed death from formaldehyde,

loud zygotics        of ponder and bloating

species in the cachet       churn of Saatchi.

Out-split pigs,        there, lunch boxes of giftshopped face,

carnage assemblaged.        Do we mature by killing, stuffing,

or by creating offense?       Ofili's Ave Turd Maria

smeared before Leibovitz.       Now the frozen

blood bust of Quinn merged        and Bowie was not de-sublimated,

sniffing a proboscis of fiberglass       penis for $9.75

Beyond the zoo oeuvre—parroted plop, elephantine turd,

monkey nipple—an artist laid down his shovel

and as that shovel lay hardening       with a warm fecal crust,

he faced stupefaction, and he doubted        his own conundrum.