Art lovers and patrons are patronised
Now.
Left lingering in a cloud of smoke
Above Damien Hirst’s ashtray:
Crematorium.
Our clutch lost on traditional straws
We suck on
Crazy, curly ones
And receive little substance
In our mindful mouths
The preacher’s sermon
Crying for draftmanship
is distorted by muffled speakers in
The Whitechapel
And leather clad artists
Laugh on route to the bank
Having sold the tissue
That mopped their latest wank
And the cash falls neatly into Saatchi’s hands,
Which are later spotted strangling his wife,
Whilst cutting a scallop with a fish knife.
The publicist spins the large wheel of fortune
The ashes of the convenient Momart fire
Sit in an urn
In the Groucho.
‘We’re the middlemen… between the gods and the lay’
They say – as the barmen reach for Expresso martinis
And noses dribble with cocained snot
Later to an after party where a Gucci cow does moo
In the Chelsea house of an Oligarch with a Gucci shoe
Laughing at capitalism, while their capital stands tall
Guffawing at the corporate while saying:
‘Here’s my business card, give me a call’
‘Oh darling can’t you see, the art world is not what it used to be.
My accounts are off shore, so of course, here I need more.’
And more
And more
And Tracey my advice to you would be…
Get a new cleaner. If he can’t make the bed, what use is he?
So I rant, rave, hiss and spit
But let’s face it…
If I could, I’d be at Frieze, on my knees
Sucking off Saatchi.
