The Material Spirits of the Art World

Art lovers and patrons are patronised


Left lingering in a cloud of smoke

Above Damien Hirst’s ashtray:



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.