Monday, 12 April 2010

Newton's Cradle

I look in the mirror.

And see the same thing every time.

I swear to be different.

Turn my back on my reflection.

Knowing I will soon be back.

And staring into those same dead eyes.


Yours is the limelight, the carpet, the riches.

Mine is the strip light, the concrete, the stitches.


Your white-walled studio
The right letters underlining its name,
Positing ‘it’s who you know’,
Marking participation in the game.

And what’s in a hanging?
Wondrous public executions.
The people’s eyes fanning
Across the artistic ablutions.

Hung, drawn and quartered,
Scent of death, look deep inside,
Everything strictly ordered,
No imagination supplied.