Artificial

When art was made official, the state complained
of resource fatigue, an influx of pink galahs

and dysentery, a panoply of cockroaches,
then misgivings. But art and the state

claimed (loud and clear) that they were
up to the paradoxes, staking claims

via an advertising campaign set in
the stock exchange dressed up

as a two-up school. Legitimising this union
was prize culture, prised out from benefactors

and pillowy philanthropists to the factor of ten
while platforms got zazzled and the ecosystem

instafied, intensifying independence
or the deep simple images of a lifetime’s

bottom lines, a botulism of wireless wiring.
Bureaucratically speaking, it was the croupier

dishing dirt on a stain-resistant carpet—
a helluva blousy reckoning of outputs vs

inputs, while dipping a little deeper
to fund the voice-over. Weather doesn’t

need climate—which is bad for its imagery—
so a new logo was mandatory under the terms

of the new agleement, which would deliver
a level of levity to the government’s election

premises, which in turn would turn out
not to be the promises the artists signed up for

however legible the spirits on the playing field.
But if a modicum of odium could ever

gather a moss fundament, a hedge would rise
as per a cantilever over the arts consortium

where no amount of hush puppies could
peccadillo a merch sinecure, or give rise

to a tablet monopoly! So, given the integrants,
what you interpret as the interpellative

moment could simply be rife lighting
masquerading as rank-and-file reactionism

bankrolled by interacting with the rhythm
of algae—the sun shines from the shunning

of signs, from cracks in pejoratives, a lack
lustre interphase of parliamentary privilege.

So, who will spokesperson the lyrical oompah-
pa, and who will rouse the palpables from under

the stretchy material? They ask for a boost
out of the ladles of stars, for a better deal

for parcels of bunting, for the hustings glow-stick
mergings of diphenyl oxalate and hydrogen

peroxide—flashy as bonanzas of property
listings! Too many questions and statements

dished up as supply leave us with ‘consequences’:
sleeve entitlements replaced by safety concerns,

concertos of euphemism in place of action,
reason—indiscriminate disinclinations. So,

if demands are not met, let alone meant,
what porpoise does art play? What works pool

at our feet, petering out like fools, as a result?
Yeah, your gumption might gum up the jerks

if you message the massage too much,
but better that than buttering up the majesty

in a hubbub of Hubba-Bubba and the biff
and blow of penthouse bugling. Okay, realists,

take a dose of hexagonal implants, neural
up the passageways of deportments, flip

a ditch in home office accoutrements—
this is a theme, thread, melody of gist

under the regime of atom splitters
and over-the-horizon gimbal manufacturers.

Thus, scanning the score, middle-level manager
John Locke insists crown Law enlarges prostates.

Every sample of ample means, every tic
of the toe, and lashings of Enid Blyton

freedoms resolve the map splat app, so counter
that with precision engine earrings, and lap

it up from your thickshake of misgivings.
Myth-addler Adorno thinks your sacrifice

is the foaming premmy condition of your own
rationale, since your old official sackings

are irrational, irrelational, irritatingly baggy
and unworkable under the top-down hi hi hi

and kind regards of hierarchy, terraced
like a doomscroll. So, how to unsubscribe

from the boom and zoom, the accretion
and reproduction of in-bed, sold-out

figureheads, their weaponising of soldering
iron dialectics that jerry-rig the workforce

into promises of signature issues, clots
of promotional blood thinners: material

for legions of drones, that’s how, that’s
the eye of the prize that sits well qua

five eyes around the penthouse bbq
of grammatical antics, disclaiming

gymnastics in the claims office, articles
of wrath a barking cough hiding the zooosh

of nylon curtain exclamations on the day
of the Big Game containment field, to stymie

your (entré nous) macrons! Isn’t it so shell
in France? Isn’t there a demon crazy in the U.S.?

Who knew the galahs could be so stoked.
The AI croaking roaches will echo to and fro

down the epochs, resonating with the current
minister moon setting in epoxy resin.