Egon

Schiele's quickened passing at twenty-eight years of age - just days after his wife's death and his pillow-propped sketch of her looking back into him -

was more shocking to you than his egregious unfurling of women - than his use of cadaver colours - than his fists of cherry red knuckles and brush-heightened nipples in rude ochre brightness

His death scene was art - like his eroticised life where his place in it was at the centre of sex which he kept in twists of love -

of girls in their pulled-up stockings - lifted tight - but not as high as their dog-dark fleeces on their ridged pubis regions - which they pointed at - and into - with their gnarled finger touches -

There above the not-quite contrite cock-spaced curves - which he sculpted in paint over yet another stretched canvas - there in the air between their swayed thighs -

there lay those air-kissing sex-salted lips - all his undressings pre-dating porn's artless forms - there to feed others' sexual pleasures - those of the greedy male collectors