This poem was painstakingly transcribed by 23 unpaid

interns labouring under my cool, indifferent 'tutelage'

(and who, after each day's work is finished, in bars and cafés

across the city will pretend to their friends how valued

they're made to feel as students and protegés of mine.)

                                                                                                   Each

of these lackeys (mere pismires, peons all) I assign one

letter under the guidance of an apprentice whom I deem

trustworthy enough with individual lines or stanzas.

                                                                                            I might

occasionally call in on this droning hive of industry,

somewhere inbetween all the press junkets, interviews with

documentary-makers, publishers and potential clients,

perhaps to rescue a skewered metaphor here, some

awkward phrasing there, maybe praising this assistant

and then, with waspish tact and venom arbitrarily

slapping that one, imperiously mocking him as he cries

into his apron (it keeps the little bugs on their toes);

overall, conducting like a martinet the production

of a piece I will ultimately, of course sign off on as solely

of my own devising.

                                    Who gives a damn! It was my concept,

after all - I 'created' it, even if I did finnagle that bunch

of philistine, wannabe hacks into crafting the actual marks

themselves.

                      I am what I demand I always be called, by

everybody (including you): not simply the executive creative

director, but moreso, the 'conceptual godhead' of my Art.