Safe Hands

There came a time machines could synthesise 

The outputs of the artists. In the end, 

Nobody cared. 

We all thought they would... 

But absolutely no-one gave a shit 

In the end.

In fact, it was just what we needed: 

The notion of artistic function 

Died that day. 

Flawed flawless logic industrial 

Saw a grey production line that 

Wasn’t there.

Procurement, raw materials,  

Assembly, operations, quality control 

And packaging

Deduced from worlds of finished products 

Distilled to chains of samechurn blocks 

And left to run.

But there never was a product.

Else The Giclée Scream on a £10 print 

And The Scream on a canvas of millions 

Would be the same - 

The gap  

A breaking open of an artist, a spilling 

Out of self. 

As I type in my this-moment a machine 

Whispers “I can see you are writing a poem: 

“May I help?”

“What you can do is fuck off” I hear me say.