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Thomas Steyer Sep 2021
The show is over, nothing sold
All in vain, what a pain
It's the saddest story all told.

What have I learned?
Future looks bleak but I'm unique
Why should I be concerned?

I paint and follow my passion
The real McCoy full of joy
Master life after a fashion.
Jayanta Jun 2020
Insanity engraved in
Exhibition is going on
Madness instill
Paradox of false learning continue!
Nature encores its own functions
So called exhibitionism never inspire
to learn, unlearn and relearn!  
So, madness continue
to engraved its own coffer for exhibition!
J J Jun 2020
Comatosed with open gaze insinuating
Morphine daydreams,
With bristling hairs along arms
Before she had the chance to shave
and the folicles deactivated;
It is her womb she has devoted
For the public eye;
How it slowly rots, from incarnadine
-as the historical pictures aside her show-
To it's current viridian swelter;
Like an ugly robust bruise too tough to die.

Rupturing outward a torridness
Of legs and crooked fingers stuck to half-grip,
Scanning southly one notes globules of goosebumps
Haunting up her thighs,
Pricking cloudward and shivering implying that,atleast,
For a second whilst living she was aware of this—
Her impending fate.

Red,red,red lips
bud close to form a cute,poppish image,
Honouring those photographers who come and go—
Her tiny hands are posited to corner her tiny *******
As not to stir any further controversy.
The lady in the jar awaits the usuals,while blind
to her own doing so,

Mind overrun and on display like a faulty calculator
Via that dull, happy, gaze.

She smells up the room of exquisite perfume and
Quixotic trees and fields and roads and too much more to mention...

The fee these stranger's would scavage from their pockets
Just to be awarded a chance to touch
The fair lady’s skin and determine a better verdict
As to whether or not she meant all that much to the world
at all.
Jodie-Elaine Nov 2018
Early nineties,
they found a box behind reception labelled ‘lost anatomy’
opens it,
finds his voice.
They took our sounds for granted and crossed the lines ‘till the only thing our lips could do was flail,
they plugged us in with wires but no amps, back into the whitewashed walls and tied us up in graffitied corners, all the places where political shadows do nothing but lull out anaesthetic.

Mocked scenes from final destination,
the one where the subway train collides
encounters America’s tired hum and buzz.
The television upchucks static and we don’t know why it’s still switched on.
A child’s hand reaches out and plucks a seashell from an afro,
tries to hear the sea.
Looping, rippling and losing his rights each time a wave hits the shore.

The invisible nooses around our fingers rifle through an open book.
They told us that that much candy can rot your teeth
and the hand works its way up a room with a view where
tights aren’t tight
but no one ever notices the old man at closing time,
crying at the clocks.
Inspired by a 2015 Nottingham Contemporary exibition on voice, race, sexuality and gender (I'll add in the name when I remember). Favorite artworks in the show were Felix Gonzalez-Torres' "Untitled" (Perfect Lovers), 1991 and Bruce Nauman's "Run from Fear, Fun from Rear", 1972.
hani aqil Mar 2018
stepped into the gallery;
stepped onto pristine marble floors, sheen-decked, with our
grubby school shoes like
mud on palace gates;
stepped into a world of
suits and champagne and jewelry,
of cheese we couldn't pronounce,
of empty speeches and pretence;
"******* ***", as you put it.

walked around the exhibition, you weren't
all that impressed and you
didn't really keep quiet about it.

you were the only one, I think.

rich powerful men scare me.

walked down the hall, past
twenty closed doors, extending as if
mirrored to infinity;

were still unimpressed,
"This doesn't really work,"
you said.
"I feel like he's done
Everything he can with this style."

I think the same but I don't say the same.
rich powerful men scare me.

I wonder if
they're ******* their daughters behind those closed doors.
a poem about visiting a high end photography opening with my friends
CarterCreator Dec 2017
trace a searing path
down my spine.
How can so many
stand so close
and not burn with me?
I confused agave
for Amber
when you spoke
Drank a glass full

Choked on all the flys
In elementary school
Muesem of sepia boxes

Sluggish down my throat
Petrified My heart
Pathetic, and filthy
frozen in carbonite nectar
Like a classroom fly

blush my cheeks
make my cold hands touchable
Harvest my Amber heart

I never was
A mourning person.
But I have always been
An exhibition.
orion j Jun 2014
explain to me why destruction is considered an art?
if i were you, i’d find a way to fight it.
as if destruction was an abstraction to describe to one’s self in a physical installation for all to see in a rarely visited gallery
we lock the doors because we are ashamed of the critics marking and making spiteful points as they leave red marks all over the walls
almost as if the surfaces were like a test paper without any attempt of answering or the tear and wear of the skin you bare

it was always war that we wouldn't label with a numeral to go down in the big books. instead, we whispered it under the sheets. we posted our thoughts on anonymous accounts that go hand in hand with a little lock sign in the corner. we used thunder in our words knowing that reaction that resulted resembled lightning.

as if a tattered canvas could make up for your bruised and battered soul

here’s my advice ; leave the doors unlocked just for a day, you might be surprised at what you find

— The End —