Up in the attic he scrabbles through
images,
downloading shots of the show he’s
just seen,
calls out for a plate of
well-composed sausages,
bacon and eggs, camp coffee and
cream.
Fat-glutted, flatulent, squat in his
desk chair,
he’s racking what’s left of his brain
for a theme,
one that will knock out the peeps
with a bright flare
of genius, but shooting the breeze with
his meme.
He cares most about blazing ahead of
his deadlines,
though his lines are as dead as the
meat in his gut.
Art works have gone the way of the
end times;
they’re not as important as jamming
his butt
on the bench where his bevvy-mates
jostle and cackle
at the last one who, tipped off,
falls on his can.
Such is the fate of the hack bosses
tackle
by spiking his clottings; they’re
dumped down the pan.
It’s his nightmare, this huckster
whose jottings die limping,
so he’s out to provoke – a
replacement for thought –
assuming that catchy is better, while
pimping
his pieces to papers far more than he
ought.
Oh, give us an expert who’s become a
critiquer
with plenty of knowledge to pass down
the line,
so that those of us lacking don’t
become bleaker
and finish with art as a rank waste
of time.
