Pantomime Gods in Kensington Gardens *
(© Stef Zelynskyj a.k.a. british artist 1999)

There may even be some art slipped into this noise and effects:

My mistake of course,
You cannot really expect an artist to make art,
Abuse the Media of their lifetime,
When there is so much dead-hand pencil and paint,
Left over, leftovers with leftovers to please the Critic.
A big hand for the Whispering Sunday Judas - and about time,
Counting the Monet in the Garden of too many tears and flowers and marching feet.
A diet of too much coffee-table-chocolate-and-Pollock for the masses,
Makes me feel sick,
And sick as Art can be,
It is only vomit,
That to me is simply sick,
"Messing" is only Ms Donna Promadonna's bad tempera.
Should anyone sign all secretions or limit their edition?
Art that cannot be herd (sic): video noise cannot be art because the Critic says not,
You cannot sell it,
It refuses to be framed.
At least you can suck,
The end of your brush,
And chew your pencil,
Just like the cud.
Too many cows in art ...
Room in the shed for one more?
I forget, they blew that one up - I liked that.
Bet that Art made a Noise.
The shed that is, not the cows.
The deck of cows were cut in half for Freezer-man.
They teach taxidermy & taxi-driver in the life drawing class... don't they?
I just drew the ace of hearts,
With my digital camera,
Then I skewed up alchemy,
On my desktop.
Before magic could happen,
My-worthless collage:
Seven years bad luck sentence,
Caged life glue-less in deaf wilderness of fools;
Broke number one Magic Mirror.
More formaldehyde & cucumber sandwiches?
This time stuff Vicious the Joker dressing-up again.
I remember base player by numbers in overt time,
Nuisance at parties not art?
The real art was heard-music,
"My way" tongue-twisting groove video for the UK.
God I'm glad I was ears ahead once.
Listing at drug Anarchy speed then,
I never tired of wasting time waiting like today.
Today I keep a shovel in my shed,
I use it to dig holes in the Garden.
Not art you understand, simply holes.
Then I use the spade,
To fill the holes in.
My art is full of them.
My spade is not a shovel,
It's a ready made,
Of wood and iron and rivets.
I call a spade a tool.
Some say it's Art.
There's a Gallery worthy of them,
Curated at the New Garden Centre,
Next to the sheds,
Con-signed by the New Artist toolmakers,
Spear and Something.
There are gnomes too in the shed in my head,
They Two shit to commission.
But gnomes in the shed,
And gnomes in the garden,
And gnomes in my head,
Are not art but kitsch .
I prefer quiche,
It's an art getting the ingredients right.
But cooking is a skill,
Keeping pans of frozen heads,
From going off the boil.
I went to this Open Garden Day,
YBA at the ICA,
Where all these disfigured gnomes on plastic,
Had come out to play.
Bleeding dummies everywhere,
Hanging from the roof,
From captain's hook and captain's table,
Aye, aye, captain birds-eye, Never Never Land with attitude:
Cleaning up with ketchup,
The Pantomime Gods in Kensington Gardens,
Don't fly like a real-Mars a day can in the land of special K.
"Time for bed..." said permanent one-way Zebedee Roundabout,
Springing clean to dirty from his mortal coil,
Full stop, period, dot, dot, dot, dot.
I used to scream in gardens, so tranquil no concrete.
Until I met Wendy House.
Mixing in the garden,
"Bet the Garage and the Warehouse was more fun to build Wendy",
And pull to pieces.
Thank you Andy W,
For the Electric Chair,
To sit on.
And thank you Tom, and Robert, for N-Y-city electric guitar,
"I hear only art and see no evil everywhere."
I went shopping once, for art and camping supplies,
Down Kensington High Street,
Shops were full of it,
Mannequins everywhere,
Shop-gnomes in clothes,
Emporiums of dummies,
With attitude.
Art is not only,
Full of Madams on Pooh Corner.
It's full on...
Life on L plates.
Mind you, you don't have to live,
With art "In your face!",
To cut yourself,
The blunted pencil can be mighty sharp,
But is it only art,
That does not suffer the truth?
I think not.
Tomorrow-art will be different,
It always is.
And always comes - messy at first,
Like Pantomime Horse on the video,
Sticky white art in the bucket of snow,
What comes next?
Who cleans up?
Sundays Artist likes to pluck feathers from Gods...
And press flowers and pounds of flesh.
"Don't tell me that my art is not ironic!"
I live a lot like children,
And when I die I'll be curated,
Or go to Heaven.
Who'd have thought I'd become a toothless carnivore...
At my age out of time,
With bad wings mended,
I can no longer fly,
Thank you Gabriel.
When can I get to paint those angel-gates red?
All compass points North,
They always did.
And in case you get lost,
Sampling life,
Art is not worth,
One life lost,
Or one missed beat.
Art is wins,
Don't Look Now,
"The Nominations are,"
Little Red Riding Hood,
Playing in Panto this year.
Look who's over there,
Behind you,
From the square mile of East,
Death in Venice, Biennial.
" By Invitation Only."
My friend Wolf sang, "Memo from Turner",
What a performance,
Three in the bed,
I'll blow your house down."
Then the little one said,
With the gun to his head,
"Roll over! Role over Huff and Puff,
Time to play dead."
Only the dead should choose to sleep in a glass case,
Like Lenin,
Or drink from the glass slipper,
With Marilyn.
Just Time for another ?
Intermission intermezzo,
Squeeze in documentary,
Fourth Channel last rites,
On what Modern Art ,
Is and is not...
My vote is always celluloid-void: stillborn.
Welcome to Club Art,
Zimmer frame direction,
Framed to shaky camera,
"Nice and Artsy darling."
Cute little montage,
Film vague foreign body parts in parts of no relation,
Always-scripted trip - a little earner...
Ex-poseure Voice Over on expenses.
Moire on the Crumpled Suit.
Hold that horizon dub wobble widescreen,
But don't smile just yet.
Tenuous Link inherits the earth,
Convincing like a Promo,
Pre-rolling away in my new-Wasteland,
Resuscitating Milton,
Performing mouth to mouth art with dead fishes.
Before the great Glass Bowl of GMT,
Meridian Lost,
Millennium Tony,
Kicks in with his New Gods.
Rewind, the Fountain of youth.
Who's left here remembers what time it was,
Or where they where,
When Precedent Millennium was shot...?
History is not what happens,
It's how we live making it.
Art time belongs to everyone.
Forearm twist the propeller,
Watch-mice all fall down,
Can't Stop the Clock,
Artist thinks,
Myra's portrait got hung,
My sentence is life,
But what have I done?
My chains are indivisible,
Too late to fake it,
This tightrope life has become a noose.
" Pigs might Fly in Eden."
Then they flew... U.F.B.
Unidentified Flying Bacons,
The runaway trains that went over the hill,
"Tangent off the starboard bow, Captain."
Waltzing the plank into cyberspace,
Where everything unreal, like art, can happen,
And nothing real ever really does.
What time is it now?
Tick tock,
Tick tock,
Tick tock,
Tick tock
Time for another nuit blanche... 
© Stef Zelynskyj 1999
* " will be difficult to follow Peter Pan's adventures unless you are familiar with the Kensington Gardens. They are in London, where the King lives..." J.M. Barrie 1906