Fountain

An empty space, all ideas fading out of reach,

beyond the clamour for one

unique original insight. No more

in this knowing world are we shocked?

‘Concepts’ now seem like children’s games

played in a bomb shelter whilst death

maims and tortures above our heads.

Weighty maternal curves have slipped

into the past. Industrial

angularity has posted

its ugliness in defiance

of sentiment; cows have been sliced

and beds unmade; sheds exploded

into shards of beauty; walls curled

through forests; worlds turned inside out;

gestures’ rhythms have startled us;

the vibrant stillness of colour

has bowed heads and arrested hearts.

Even pissing against the wall

punked its way through the febrile search

for revelation, so we sneer

and turn away. Where next? Seeking

the Pissoir’s replacement, we find

it is not there – just a mirage

teasing us with the lies of fame.

After all, the Pissoir has gone,

absorbed into the established

canon and its authentic voice

flushed away, leaving deposits

of cosy ceramic copies.

Is this then a twilight, misty

memories of hopeful fury

doused by the hopelessness of death?

Or a pause; exhilaration

hidden behind a weary search?

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s