Big, Intricate And Ugly

Must be bloomin’ famous, heard one sigh,
I mean, it towers over everyfing. Yers, a
friend replied, makes me feel small ‘n
all. Like I’m insignificant or summat.

Original intention was much less benign,
the mess which was supposed to be a
causal work of art design attracted huge
response from gawp of naive eyes.

To one side a cognoscente kept its cool,
should attendance reach unprecedented
figures fools could fiddle while the coffers
filled. Well, it IS intricate, one near admits.

Like mythology of an Emperor’s new
clothes, one pair of eyes sees the obvious,
describes it as a mess. What’s’ supposed
to be? Post-modern expression of PMS?

Yers, someone agrees, that I see. Yers,
it really brings it home to me when you
call it that. PMS, PMT, whatever you
think; and big, innit? Squashes everyfink.

Move it to the street immediately a
beaten, red-faced directorship agrees,
a contemporary artefact belongs with
its milieu, free of gallery influence.

Yers, ‘n’ it is big, intricate AND ugly.
© 22 February 2008, I. D. Carswell