If Poems Were Paintings (A Scabrous Fantasy, Written After Watching J. Koons at Work On BBC4)
This poem was painstakingly transcribed by 23 unpaid
interns labouring under my cool, indifferent 'tutelage'
(and who, after each day's work is finished, in bars and cafés
across the city will pretend to their friends how valued
they're made to feel as students and protegés of mine.)
of these lackeys (mere pismires, peons all) I assign one
letter under the guidance of an apprentice whom I deem
trustworthy enough with individual lines or stanzas.
occasionally call in on this droning hive of industry,
somewhere inbetween all the press junkets, interviews with
documentary-makers, publishers and potential clients,
perhaps to rescue a skewered metaphor here, some
awkward phrasing there, maybe praising this assistant
and then, with waspish tact and venom arbitrarily
slapping that one, imperiously mocking him as he cries
into his apron (it keeps the little bugs on their toes);
overall, conducting like a martinet the production
of a piece I will ultimately, of course sign off on as solely
of my own devising.
Who gives a damn! It was my concept,
after all - I 'created' it, even if I did finnagle that bunch
of philistine, wannabe hacks into crafting the actual marks
I am what I demand I always be called, by
everybody (including you): not simply the executive creative
director, but moreso, the 'conceptual godhead' of my Art.