But is it Art? (Poetry)

We've seen a pile of house bricks and a light switched on and off,
a heap of rotting rubbish bags and struggled not to scoff
at the scruffy installation of Ms Emin's unmade bed,
unconvinced there is a concept on display (or in her head),
for everything we've looked at is simply poles apart
from any kind of vision we could class as pukka Art.

There's a niggling suspicion someone's playing "let's pretend"
and it's all about the cheque book and the money people spend
on controversial items - investing in the hype
that elevates the ordinary and talks such barefaced tripe -
it seems there's no one brave enough to say it's likely that
rich Mr. Saachi's gone and bought himself a load of tat.

Whatever they might label it, however hard they shout,
most of us aren't taken in although there is no doubt
it's kind of vaguely interesting but someone should debunk
the fallacy it's worth something when it resembles junk -
no sign of skill or passion, it lacks both soul and heart,
they should invent another word - the antonym of Art.

(2nd Prize winner, Literary Review poetry competition, May 2004 issue)