Cindy Sherman & Tracey Emin
by Angela Hibbs
[ poetry - september 07 ]
Cindy Sherman
Just lying in the dirt
In artfully crumpled clothing
That swathes like a blanket.
Background music and tight rings leaving
Marks on skin
My horns and chins are growing
Ominously.
My hood is there to protect me
Or to intensify fear, pleasure,
What have you. Ear cradle.
I stare at my autobiography when I stare into space.
All wishes don't come true
When I punch out at the end of the day
All wishes don't come true
When the buzzer goes off on the MicroWave.
Narrow New York cafes
Where prints hang,
Each portrait a suicide.
Fame makes each
Step hurt. I look
Like a victim,
It doesn't mean I'll be applauded.
CDs piled to the sky.
He'll sneak up no matter what I play
Or mute.
We're not teenagers anymore, we cannot
Rely on soliloquy to express the small brutalities
Of our privileged childhoods.
I just want to be
In
the encyclopaedia.
Tracey Emin
She demands to be regarded - Melanie McGrath
The Tate just wants you to decorate their tree,
Maybe sweep up a few needles
And swish some Ajax around in the toilet.
Only that.
Confession is no longer a viable art form
As if a priest would accept anything less.
As if we could make anything other than.
Your torso is nothing but a triangle anyway -
The gallery sounds like driving in your first car
With the windows rolled down
To let the night in.
If all you have is tits and ass
And that's all they want
You're in luck.
