I look in here—this

                  notebook—& see

                                     the notes for the 
last review I did,

                  & note—that I am

                                     about to write another.  
Tho I would rather

                  write something else.

                                              I whistle 
bop a bit

                  try not to think

                                     of the 
vast tide of crap

                  the exhibition represents,

                                         check 
the sky: sere,

                  grey, pale up

                                     one end of the street, 
almost Neapolitan

                  at the other:

                                     pale, but a distinct 
blue,

                  with some dark smudged stain

                                     drifting over it, 
much closer to

                  than the far blue behind—

                                     blown,

in those paintings,

                  from a volcano nearby—

                                     almost like flak
in the old movies.

                  (Goya’s mantilla,

                                     & parasol—
& the rumour

                  that nothing lasts forever)
                  #
It makes the sky darker too

                  an atmosphere

                                     not a backdrop
                  #
a small figure, further down

                  Hindley Street

                                     is crossing the road—I recognise 
the coat

                  as much as the figure—

                                     but who?
                  #
It is about time

                  I had a drink with Crab.

                                     About time 
for a lot of things.  What

                  to do about this

                                     art?
I whistle ‘You’re My Thrill’,

                  the beginning—but, whistling it,

                                     I end up, as always, 
with the ‘Perry Mason Theme’

                   (I think)

                                      (it is 
so long

                  since I have actually heard it)

                                     Instantly recognisable 
when I was a kid.

                  I thought I didn’t like it—now it

                                     seems I do

or something

                  cousin to it.

                                      ‘You’re 
My Thrill’.  Then

                   ‘Couldn’t It Be You’—

                                     I wonder what 
the connection is —

                  the key, the pattern,

                                     somehow relates?  
Its

                  calming effect

                                     when I whistle it.

So,

                  resignation, ‘getting on with things’.

                                     Hate to turn 
a beautiful tune

                  into a tic, a

                                     neurotic response                    
tho again, luckily,

                  it is only the first few bars

                                     I remember this way,
the rest of the song

                  is safe,

                                     unretrievable.
When I play it

                  I smile.

                                     This 
art then,

                  what to do about it?

                                     Inflated in scale, naive, 
‘done’ when its theme is recognised

                   — like slogans

                                     for a moral position.
As if the viewer

                  should tick a

                                     box, in approval, 
& move on

                  perhaps ‘liking’ it

                                     on their facebook page.
(their ‘mental’ facebook page)
                  Does anybody do that,

                                            like it that much 
that they could bother to register

                  this vote  (?)  their

                                      ‘shared concern’?

I doubt it.
                  But then

                                     I am whistling the wrong tune.
I read in Denton Welch

                   (the Journals)

                                     of some gypsies he hears
coming home from the pub

                  singing ‘Bye Bye Blackbird’

                                         1946
My father used to sing that song.

                  I love it.

                                     The opening notes
of the John Coltrane version.
My father

                  sang it often enough

                                     for me to know the words.
Denton, near the end—
                           “Chopin pours over me from the wireless.

                           Nothing but this small picture will be left

                           of the day.  Many years after, people may

                           be able to read then say, ‘He was cold;  he

                           watched the sunset;  he ate a chocolate,’  but

                           nothing more will be left to them.”
                           #
Today I worried happily,

                  wrote stuff, ‘asseverated’,

                                     was alive.  
It was supposed

                  to get cold—but it didn’t.