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With Lennon, cynic, bunkum’s graduate,
and self-appointed soothsayer, dead,
false hopes were raised that, broken, the
quartet might drift into deserved oblivion;
for never did such mediocre skills receive
so much acclaim.

It was not so, and once again
Mark Antony’s oration comes to mind:
for now two million pounds have built
a shrine wherein, perpetuate, the wish
to elevate nonentity endures –
a shrine where devotees many genuflect
before a Golden Disc (as Egypt did to Ra) –
prostrate themselves, as though
confronted by the Turin Shroud, in front
of garments worn at concerts long ago.

It stands, this Liverpool museum,
a monument to brash vulgarity and noise,
to lack of culture, lack of sense –
a building programmed to provide
its cacophonic matins or erotic evensong
with Afro connotations of hysteria
en masse and sex –
a temple, dedicate, to Pop, the great
and universal god, to whom each day
are sacrificed the misled young, the mindless old.

And Lennon, from a hell reserved for all
debasers of the Arts, observes, assesses its true worth, and sneers!

T. C. Hudson.

© T. C. Hudson.

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