Grayson Perry turned me into a pot.
Strange it seems now to talk about it,
Now that it sits olive green in its slot
And the phallic motifs around it flit.
People ask me why I agreed to this.
But think, would you reject such an artist
Calling to say, “I’d like to paint you, Chris”?
So, though it may not have been the smartest,
At the time, it was just before prison.
No other Turner-awarded person
Was courting me for a prize commission
And I didn’t know the shade of his version.
When he first came round, devoid of his frock
I didn’t recognise him, but we talked.
Seemed a normal bloke. I liked him a lot.
Nothing prepared me for simply how shocked
I was by the art when it was revealed.
It seemed to me, no – no not radical
But neither was it particularly skilled.
He wanted an archetype, not actual
Humanity, and finding me unbroken
He broke the ceramic with me contained,
And seemed it up with gold. Some unspoken
Symbol for the cracks, which through me veined.
Now am I olive green and all confused –
The edges that make me up are gold leaf.
My heart is beating but all is refused
And the bleating in my ears is firing me deaf.
I am the symbol of the cracks which burn.
I am the music that strains from the protest.
Like Thatcher, I shall not, I will not turn.
To face that repeated, damning motif.