The painting in room 23

The painting in Room 23 on the left of the door as you go in.

I was conceived in passion,

born in a frenzy,

wild daubs of colour

hurled at the canvas.

First came laughter.

Then came tears.

Artists are not quiet folk

who watch the news at ten for years

and then go to bed.

Painters live in pendulum swings,

are sober or drunk but nothing between.

What artist follows the golden mean?

Now I am hung in silence.

At first I thought I was in a morgue.

Hung did I say?

Hanged I should have said,

for I and my mates are virtually dead,

hung up in a row in room 23.

The floors are polished bright and shine,

And the loos are disinfected well,

even here we catch the detergent smell.

Here in room number 23

the windows are clean, the lighting dim,

or is it subtle?

Anyway, you can hardly see.

Here art is reckoned to come alive

on weekdays between 10 and 5,

and Sunday pm and Saturday too.

That’s when we’re fit for public view.

People talk in respectful tones,

stare vacantly,

reading the guide book,

but in reality

they long for a seat,

or a stiff drink,

or at very least a cup of tea.

And all is quiet, the silence of culture.

Don’t wake the attendant sitting on his chair

with his well-brushed uniform and his well-combed hair.

I’m fed up with the sight of him expiring there.

So don’t ask me where I’d rather be,

in the house of strife where I had life

or on permanent loan to this gallery.

Copyright 2013