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?