So Like Art Then Do You?

‘You like art then, do you?’
Bellowed a bearded man atop the Fishmarket roof.
‘You like Bennett, and Lawrence, and The Levellers then, do you,
Well rejoice in Northampton, the creative capital of the land.
We have galleries of work, and workshops in galleries,
And a bazaar of art right ‘neath my very feet.’
He points and guffaws like a ridiculous street urchin.
‘We have a museum, of history and crafts, both ancient and modern,
We have theatres that have had upon their boot-trampled boards
The boots and the flesh of the feet of genius,
Whose walls have bathed long in the tongue of Shakespeare,
And the graceful rumble of the Royal Ballet,’
‘We have auspicious audiotoriums, The Roadmender, The Racehorse,
And these transport our minds so bedecked with the highest of arts,
To the dirty, filthy, mucky pounding prose of modern band jangle-pops.
All this is ours, our town is our home, so come within this market now
Feast your eyes, and to this shoe-borne town, avow!’

And as the man shouts,
A beautiful young girl collapses in hysterics,
Her pretty pink shoes
Doused in hot piss,
And she stares at him shuddering,
And replies, sweet and serene,
‘Northampton! Northampton, the heart of England,
Northampton, Northampton, the heart of literature,
Northampton, Northampton, the heart of ART?’

And we hear the little girl cry now.
‘What troubles you, my dear?’ Beardy shouts from atop the roof,
perturbed and puzzled by the effeminate disturbance.
She responds;

‘NORTHAMPTON NORTHAMPTON
MY OWN FUCKING NORTHAMPTON
CULTURALLY INEPT AND BEREFT OF MEANING,
NORTHAMPTON NORTHAMPTON
OUR OWN LITTLE VACUUM.
NORTHAMPTON, NORTHAMPTON,
NO ONE VISITS, NO ONE LEAVES, NO ONE CARES,
NORTHAMPTON NORTHAMPTON
WRUNG TO DEATH IN COUNCIL HALLS BY BLUE BUTTON BASTARDS
NORTHAMPTON NORTHAMPTON,
HOME OF CLICKERS AND COBBLERS NOW BURIED AND COLD,
NORTHAMPTON NORTHAMPTON,
SKIPPED OVER BY BANDS THAT TOUR OUR WHOLE ISLAND,
NORTHAMPTON NORTHAMPTON,
GREEDILY DEVOURING ITS OWN SPHINCTER,
NORTHAMPTON NORTHAMPTON
WHERE WANKERS WARBLE ABOUT SAVING TREES,
NORTHAMPTON NORTHAMPTON,
LADLING PRAISE UPON ITSELF,
NORTHAMPTON NORTHAMPTON
NOT A CENTRE, NOT A FOCUS,
BUT NORTHAMPTON NORTHAMPTON,
THE SEPTIC TANK OF CREATIVITY’S HAND-MADE HOME.’

And as she finished spitting her diatribe,
The market had melted,
The people had left,
And all that remained,
Was a puddle of excrement,
In the shape of a stiletto.