When galleries are closed and shadows lay
flensing on floors - broken frames for pictures
without an exhibition - I make lists
of names of everyone who never slept.
Shriven skeletons of light make Art pay
for its denial by stitching scriptures
to my eyelids and tattooing my fists
with 'LOVE' and 'EMIN'. What are more inept
are tabloid reconstructions of burning
beds, as if doors are still open and walls
no longer witness each child sacrifice.
Emotions on display are mere gurning
through stocking masks fashioned from baby cauls,
by poseurs who want portraits to look 'nice'.
