Artists 
in their
factories
are

working
hard now
filling in
steel

boxloads
of grant
application
forms

on an
ongoing
shift
basis

through the
generations
beyond
making.

Life is
good.

There is
breathing
space.
The 

galleries
are show
ing the
normal.

Formal.
The avant
garde. The 
pig in a

    poke.

Elderly ladies
eyes closed
heads lifted
listen to

    mell
    if
    luous

poetry
& no
body’s
bitter.

.
                       
Dips from
its pergola
touching yr
head as you

pass a rose by
way of caress
on a chill bright
winter morning
                        
turning on its
stem pale 
cream along a
black path

into the
park

sometimes
the slits
of an owl’s
lids open

to watch a
drop

falling from a
horn of lime
hanging from the

underarch
of a bridge.

.

O
come dance 
with me
ye

prety maidens
& hark the foulys
song along an
avenue

of Boojum where
huge pyramids of
crystal new-fangled
interwoven

logics laugh at
the little people
tiny down there
among the

latest splashes
of the
hyper-baroque.

It’s good 
to be
dead.

Past the
pastoral fascists
& gallery
thugs.

Pluck that
string. It
really feels
like this …

cycles
within
cycles.

And a dog 
out there in 
the dark going 
Art! Art-Art! 

Art!