Half man half prawn reclining on a corned beef chaise longue
Yes contemporary art is what I speak of
And half man half prawn was it’s searing blade
Until one balmy night near the end of high summer
A new ace was pulled from the tumbling deck
A trump card produced then cunningly played

The gallery was rammed and buzzing
In high expectation of what was to come
Some say an act of pure existentialism
Others a mix of Da Da and Jung
There had been some confusion just by the main door
For a Shitsu had laid a small turd on the floor
Hence a group from the art school
Had left their depression
Declaring a spontaneous act of expression
In short this was just too avante-garde
The rumours were running like molten lard

Did the sperm come from Dali, The egg from Fonteyn
The artist come surgeon, A fast breaking name
The surrogate mother knew what was expected
For her broken waters had been shaken and stirred
By the funky bar tender so cool and connected
Frankincense burned as the dower dilettante
Sipped on his cool embryonic frappe
The heavily pregnant birth mother entered
And a bearded philanthropist shouted ‘Ole!’
Murmurs rode up as she stepped on the canvas
Clad in a polyandrous birthing smock
A guru’s low mantra rang out from the Tannoy
(Nam renge keo renge)
The lights were dimmed low until but one single spot
Illuminated the birth of the innocent child

Tiny silent bright on bare white canvas
An act of creation quite second to none
Tiny silent bright on bare white canvas
Unaware of it’s role in a cruel life to come

Tarquin Mule the artist come surgeon
Stepped forward and snipped the umbilical cord
Then adjusting his black raw silk surgical gown
Held the child aloft as though addressing the Lord
“I proclaim this child to be all that is art
And all that is art to be this child
Its name will be Art And so will it’s nature
So lets kick off bidding In honour of Neitzche”

Pepe le blanc the celebrity chef
Bore the aftermath off on a cold silver tray
The birth mother sedated was put in the car
As he feverishly started to flip and flambé
By the time he had served up his chic canapé
The bloodstained canvas and baby boy
Had been snapped up and wrapped up and driven away

Arts life was brief and uninspiring
Because everything Art touched turned to art
Fifty soiled nappies behind tinted Perspex
His first work sold for the price of a theme park
Schooled in a gallery cut from glass
A contemporary mariner tied to the mast
Of his life on a windless sea
Poor Art became lonely as lonely can be

By the age of twenty he’d grossed twelve billion
But last found love with a girl called Vermillion
Who ran her own public relations firm
The promotion of art was it’s sole concern

She told him he was a living God
And fed him with pink analgesic pills
She told him whatever he wanted to hear
(she was in PR for Christ’s sake, it was her job)
And Art paid the bills

But oh what a day, What a catastrophic shock
When Art returned home from his self help group
To find his bedroom door firmly locked
The Bentley estate parked behind the wall
The half empty bottle of vintage Krug
The surgeon’s gown on the floor on the hall
He peeked through the keyhole
His heart in his throat
To see Vermillion inflagrante delicto
Tied hand and foot
With a raw silk rope
The correspondent it was plain to see
Was Tarquin Mule, his mentor, his creator
Yes Tarquin Mule, the villainous fiend

On a dark and dusty factory floor
Art first shed his clothes before bolting the door
He mounted the gibbet of improvised crates
Contemplating his life in it’s tragical fate
He tied up the noose, said a short prayer
Broken hearted, spent and ruined
He closed his dull eyes
Then kicked the cold air

But the instant he did
Twenty floodlights flashed on
And surrounded he was by a chattering throng
Of champagne sipping bourgeoisie
Art critics, socialite, national TV and radio crews
All there to peruse
But most disgustingly
Most disgracefully
Most outrageously
Tarquin Mule
Powered and cruel
Hemp clad and nimble
Jumped up on a stool

“Witness my friends, the death of Art”
Tarquin spoke working the room like a tart
With a snap of his fingers
A blank canvas was laid
Beneath poor twitching Art
For his swan song to play

It is said that the last motion of hanging man
Is ejaculation
And there according to Tarquin’s heinous plan
The last drops of life
Spilt forth from Art’s trembling form
Hit the canvas stark and bare
There in death
His last work was born

The exhibition lasted 90 days
Whilst Art turned green and rotted away
Tarquin and Vermillion moved to LA
And still live there now I’ve heard people say
So the moral is clear and the moral is plain
In this tale I’m afraid only art is to blame
So believe what you want to
Believe who you are
But please make sure above all else
That you never believe in your own PR

Murray Lachlan Young – Vice and Verse 1997