I blame Rothko
he of the huge canvas
cavernous blackness and blood red
after him the real whoopiness began
copulating neon signs fifty feet across
sheep in formaldehyde,
banal video, repetitious film,
even the filthy sheets from an AIDS victim.

Awe and wonder took to the streets
in black leather touting originality
proclaiming it ‘theatre’
and yet still we applaud?

‘Submissions:- forefront thinking is what we want
don’t send us worn out ideas’.

We all want to be acknowledged
five minutes of fame?
To associate ourselves with
‘the innovative and the new’

So it is summer,
time to read New Magazines
boasting the successes of the already successful.

Hopeful for the image that stops the breath
I found myself in a labyrinth of writing
searching for direction; finding none,
poetry without form
writing without sense
disappointment, anger
such an inadequate search for inspiration.

Who decides this is poetry or art,
is it genius or connection;
might it just be who you know?
Might it be time to give up?

Ask Mr Fry.