Arty Biota (i dont care what those words mean)

The tickets were free and it would’ve been rude not to go,
though they charged me anyhow for entry, to view,
for not having a valid NUS card or a cool tattoo;
the door lady was from Glasgow and knew how silly it all was.

Inside even the stewards weren’t working (the exhibition was that shit),
and hung below the coving was pinned a high sign
a mixed media splint printed:
CLIMATE CHANGE IS MY NEW CHAT UP LINE.

Anish Kapoor did something maternal
to show us how poor we’d be without mothers or fathers.
Rothko did something similar.
And in the footsteps of Yentob,
the cologne wake of Graham Dixon Bell,
in the suit of Sooke,
I pretended to know,
and thought up all the ways to ask you why you never came to the show.

In the next room
the next washed space of some curator and their comment on race
was an empty case brought together by a shoe-string budget
with ties to the Goldsmith’s bucket of,
I’ll try again, sir, sorry for ripping you off,
it’s just I haven’t found my voice yet, but this cough’s pretty cool, isn’t it Sir? Sir?

All that remained worthy of a mention
was a VHS tape display, four TV sets wide, of our last day,
projected in 4K affection
on repeat
with no one watching — just me — ‘cos downstairs, in Basement room B, was a person — famous on the seminar circuit for their contribution to curtain calls and the climate — 
perspiring manically,
stood on the summit podium of all they believed talking about
how fucked we all are.

I watched the TVs waiting for you to leave,
and I’m skinny from this academic fast for your approval; that’s why you can see my knees.