Apocalypse Art
Sterile ceramic gallery
White room
Every surface seen
White
A lady wearing a suit of grey angles
Stands behind a desk
Of polished glass
A rubber smile stretches her money moulded face
As people walk through the gallery door
It snaps back into arrogant indifference as they pass
Red lips
A door to teeth contrived
Pretentious
Petulant
Visually pretty
A prophecy
Nausea coaxing words mechanically repeated
Explaining pictures on gallery walls
Grey critics nod their approval
Their herd moves
Feedback buzzing
Hidden speakers prepare another plastic synopsis of art
In a corner of the gallery
Shadowed
Hangs one blank canvas
The critical masses gather
The speakers have nothing more to vomit
Machines sputter confused
Yet there it hangs
Blank
The crowd was forced to think
Then there was blood
Minds no longer realise reaction’s consequence
So long with orders
Subconscious flashing screen’s slaves
Blood
The woman’s red lips can no longer be seen
Walls no longer white
Pristine glass desk dripping red
Perfect raindrops of vein release
From the gallery door
One white
Blank
Canvas
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