Full length mirrors and elegant marble stair cases
Comfortable viewing for old masters in stasis,
Secreted behind this opulent candy pigment
Is the clandestine sprit of an immortal delinquent.
See the temple luxurious, adorned with fashion
Experience the institute so alive with passion;
Well a van Dyke or a Monet could be so nice
Consider the situation and extortionate price.
Embellish the walls, with the noble craft
Lavishness facilitated by a private bank draft,
Once the ardour is enthroned in a Getty or a Tate
When art is called insanity – it will seal your fate.
Ignore pictures craft of blood and of faeces
Usual the traits so indicative of the species;
To a tranquil woodland – scenes in season
From purveyor of a quality, sedate in reason.
Or gallery of self indulgence and pure decadence
Adorn the magic castle, home to trite recompense,
Garnish the vast walls, of ornate gilding space
Dramatically decorative with fineries and lace.
Cheap Art is like an inconvenient game of suicide
Still those who do embellish always enjoy the ride;
Where hope grows as weeds on ghastly burnt ground
Determine colour and shade, let devotion abound.
Carefree today, teach the children of tomorrow
From their dreams and desires to manufactured sorrow,
And purely understand the consequence of grief
Or leave the canvas abandoned to the undiscerning thief.
The gallery hall hosts nocturnal stirrings most bizarre
A creative constellation, where atmosphere is the star;
The watchmen dose the sleep of the enlightened
Unaware of night monsters – of the culled and frightened.
Through architectural dreams as a soul never could
Hoofs galloping furious on solid polished wood,
The ebony timber passages – they buckle and creak
As the souls of the artist, in equus form they leap.
Faint sound ebb through the heavy oak door
Moon rays throw patterns, across the gallery floor,
Wild charging free, born through pain and oil
Restless bucking stallions from weathered canvas toil.
Known not to the experts, security staff or curator
They thunder down the corridor, passed midnight or later;
In cardboard box – behind the very gallery
Exists a tramp, no job, no home, no salary.
With arthritis crippled fingers now unable to paint
Frozen and hungry, he’s sometimes prone to faint,
He hears them snort and thunder, like muscular banshee
The soul of the artist – its charging wild and free!
From delicate transparencies of cherubs and clouds
Product of the artist’s from under their dark shrouds;
The spirit of freedom – these powerful equine forces
Whilst others do sleep, it’s the restless Wild Horses.
