I'll not be seduced by your clever cliches,
your Post-modern wit, your wiseacre ways;
go find another to be your amigo,
to see to the feeding and care of your ego.
So self-indulgent, so full of your self,
a glittering statue posed on your own shelf
waits anticipating the phrases that flatter —
when rubbish is godhood does anything matter?
I've lived in your world where every mistake
may be elevated as art for art's sake
and rehashing Duchamp once more brings one fame —
ironically, irony must take the blame.
Now carry on, no more than sheep leading sheep,
for you've made your bed and its ready for sleep;
but don't allow me nor good taste to inhibit
you entering it in your latest exhibit.
I once was seduced by what now must appall,
the sheer arrogance, the galleries' gall,
to show us, quite literally, refuse and shit —
yet all of it truly was, I'll now admit.
Stephen Brooke ©2016
A bunch of words, not meaning much of anything. Well, okay, sort of a Stuckist view of the Postmodern art world, but not aimed at anyone in particular (despite the oblique reference to Tracey Emin).