The Last SupperI bring you an invitation
Oh no, she says not an invitation
We are all so afraid
An invitation to hang up
The suffocating overcoat of communication
Hang it up
And those with biros write upon your wrists
The play contains no information
Aren't you tired of journalists?
Oh, aren't you tired of journalists?
No one will hold your hand tonight
Nor oil you with humour
As the swimmer is greased to pass through
When the poem became easy it also became poor
When art became mechanised it also became an addiction
Oh, I lecture you!
Second Prologue from The Last Supper
The Last Supper 1988
"..an extraordinary dynamic between audience and play...Go and see it!"