Run a rusted razorblade across my snow white throat,
A suicide attempt that wins a Turner.
Even a pissed on urinal is art if placed in the appropriate gallery.
Partially sung lullaby clicks on the tape from a disappeared juvenile,
Song sheets given out make you the voice – the victim?
Endless cries of ‘No’ as you depress the ‘yes’ option,
Machine led torture for twenty pence a play.
Another ten for the antiseptic,
Don’t want you getting ill on opening night.
A skull marked with signatures,
Every dictator dragged down through history.
Noms de plume in pink lipstick,
Hitler’s kiss puts the price at seven figures.
Brady’s suit sewn by naked sweat shop children,
‘The Exploitation Of The Common Man’.
Badges name those under the moor,
Add your own for twenty thousand!
Myra’s cut goes to rebuild the Barbican
More Shakespeare for the upper classes.
In the corner
The Florida electric chair,
With a bloodied print of Mr Bundy
Attached to a comedy plug
Which forces the light to flick
And Ted’s own final soprano performance to air.
Please sir, keep your kids away from ‘The Abortion Cabinet’,
Don’t touch ‘The Razor’s Edge’.
Don’t sit on ‘The Mercy Seat’.
Out into the cold fresh air,
Smugly celebrating another year of controversial art.
Boris Johnson sliced down the middle,
Open like a giant sardine,
Brings loud and appreciative applause.
The kids ask for postcards,
Sticking their tongues out at the plastic fish swimming in formaldehyde.
The whole world’s a stage.
The public are the exhibits.
The show never ends.
Buy the catalogue.