As in Formaldehyde, Clearly
’Tis all the fault of Tristan Tzara
the ne plus ultra - nothing farther
out is possible - outer than outest!
“Everything is art or nowt is...”
When common sense goes out the door,
it takes them half an hour (or more !)
to earn that right to primp & bore
with witless concept, cheap conceit ,
brass neck of the common cheat,
highwaypersons (Mack the Knife?)
- cryptic utterance about life
suspended in formaldehyde?
Why goodness me - I nearly died!
Think Brouillard de Charlatan
& hear the brave Marcel Duchamp,
while the black-rinse New York art
cabal attend - no mind all heart -
at the opening of his show:
“I chose what’s hanging on the wall
precisely because it has no
artistic qualities at all -
quite” said Marcel “the reverse:
it’s faute de mieux; for want of worse.”
How they loved this daring dictum!
Then, nor since, no conscience pricked’em...
In streets below, beneath their noses
derelicts in cartoon poses
paradigms of bleak despair -
but no real life gets through to where
Emperor’s clothes are de rigueur
A legacy for Windy Peacehole,
(that dull self-serving soggy rissole):
the “Concept of Conceptual Art.”
- a residue of bottled fart.
Here’s a notion - how absurd
that it’s been hitherto ignored:
let’s celebrate the humble turd!
That’s just been done! Where can we look?
Only choice is - piss or puke!
Since Emperor Vespasian
erected tasteful porcelain
stalls for those who wear the pants -
his (real-clothes) name lives on in France;
so by default - previous adoption -
there goes one half of the option.
Let’s get the other under way,
a Concept that will save the day -
an Open Avant-garde Emporium:
An As-Yet-Unfilled Vomitorium
(“just a staert - there’ll soon be more ae’em!”)
inter-active, live, hands-on,
one-for-all & all-for-one -
a truly popular concept
- all can be expert, none inept -
the rainbow-yawn, the cross community
symbol of underlying unity,
a tribute to the common man,
that hopeless loser, also-ran,
who couldn’t make it to the can.
A Gala Opening Reception!
All above board - no deception!
Thought alone should do the trick,
but try to get there feeling sick -
you will be when you see the slick,
the learned boneheads, great & good
tracing in ill-digested food
half-uncials in the Visitors’ Book
their names - immortalised in puke.
Take to ourselves that splendid floor -
space where Emperor’s clothes are wore
& nothing’s real, nevermore -
get it all up, go on, feel free,
’twill do you good, & likewise me:
with gusto & with heaving heart
throw blessings on Conceptual Art.