Art journo

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.