"Antony Gormley, What the Hell do You Mean?"


A full hundred of you hang out, naked identikits, straddling
the strand as if you owned the joint.
Configured by daylight in blackened formation,
no communication, silently spaced in distinct, arty patterns,
gazing beyond, growing in stature as waves fling back,
and we watchers blandly intellectualise about
why the Hell you're there.

Yet, I'm told that at night when the wild dancing begins,
with the partying in full swing,
you jog out of the sea, abandon posts, stuff yourselves with
home-produced jam butties, wantonly sup Cain's ale,
make mayhem on the beach 'til dawn,
when drunkedly double-shuffling, you return to position,
brains addled by constant hangovers,
and I seriously ask myself is it any wonder
not a peep comes out of you each morning?






By Jan Sear