The Scream

AI-GENERATED POEM

In the Munch Museum toilet
there’s a portrait down below—
not framed in gilt,
not bathed in light,
but where cold waters flow.

The Scream has left the gallery.
It’s had enough of art.
It’s gone where people sit alone
and contemplate their heart.

No bridge.
No sunset.
No fjord beneath the moon.
Just fluorescent interrogation
and the echos of a loo.

And there, beneath the masterpiece,
a puddle catches light:
the existential crisis
of the public toilet night.

So if you hear that famous scream
from somewhere down the hall,
don’t ask if it’s the artwork—
it might just be us all.