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The Artist and the Model

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You will yell that I'm torturing you,
and, made prettier still by your hatred,
you will curve, like a she-beast with 'tude,
your blue spine and your neck I've just painted.
I won't have your disgraceful remark,
growing pale from the rubbish you've blurted.
But I worship you as you are,
And I won't let you change one iota.
Hey, just listen! As long as I live,
while I'm living,
common folk in all temples will keep
glorifying you, loathsome being.
 

Goya

I'm Goya!
The enemy pecked up the eyes of shell-holes, flying away to the bare battlefield.
I'm a woe.
 
I'm a voice
of war, smuts of the cities on the snow of the year forty-first.
I'm a famine.
 
I'm a throat
of hanged woman, whose body ringed as a bell over a deserted square.
I'm Goya!
 
Oh, clusters
of Vengeance! I whirled up an ash of intruder with volley to West!
And drove in strong stars in the memorial sky
like the nails.
 
I'm Goya