Dark and satanic - Yorkshire art in Yorkshire space
The derelict carpet canvas rung out
Fettled back into a new loom of life
Not a time to make sense
I too missed my five minutes of fame
It needs more room
Clutter amongst clutter becomes cluttered
Art gallery
Insurance company headquarters
Utilitarian hotel
The exhibition, it will soon be about
Settled back
Art
In place of life
Catch 22 at Delineate
Your art in lines
Layered
On lost and found and printed paper
Tea party words saved for a canvas
Backdrops collected from the streets
For your de-linear exhibition space
Is this a breach of copyright?
Or did you gain your permissions from the original graphic artists
Or typesetters
Or menu makers
Or authors, or writers
Or tramps, or vagrants
Or ladies of the night
Or your otherwise
Catch-22 mad hatters
A table set, with cutlery almost perfect - just the one plastic fork. A football field all stripped out in stripes and checks and a referee in glorious pink. Necklaces of bauble diamanté, polished pearls with just the one skeleton eye socket. Rolled over waves of skin wrapped outside the crimpolene and translucent lyrex; most people try to disguise their differences.
But the artist shouts out loud
Look at me I don't give a damn
I'm me
I am supposed to be.
A pretty dress, a Zimmer frame, a swimsuit
All seen through fantastical eyes
Feminist: Black or brown, gay or straight
But no mention of disabled
A collection of paintings
An exhibition
A self of self portraits
Hey you it's me!
So just what did you expect?
Grasp the hot poker, stop the shaking, peel away the burnt skin
Steady the nerve, hold still the brush, pick up the mirror
I know nothing of you
But you disturb me
Good that the youngsters shout
That the attendant admonishes
That I am not left alone, simply to be
Nearby are ruins and cathedrals
Torturous pasts, crawled over whispers
I know nothing of you
But still you disturb me
In an easy armchair, on a quiet morning
The storms, they seem to have passed
Grey skies, now with silver sunlight
Soft music falls over the airwaves
Still I know nothing of you
But you disturb me
Troubled, bent double, creased up without laughter
Bubble, creosote and stubble, the strong sense of ones lost temper
If I sit a thousand hours will it mean anymore
If I touched your crumpled skin or smelt old piss
Why would I
Better to turn away, steer clear
Make for certain not to be affected
Fall back into my shallow ways
Turn down the lights
Turn away from the musing
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