She was hanging in
the tate sunday britain
(horses ,flamboyance & pomp
)
on six hours sleep &
smelling sweetly of last
night’s booze
taking her heels
along noisy
the wooden floor
— enough for me
& every slumped pair of glasses
tourist-eye, regular,
chinfingered about the place
to‘ o-she’s-stopped
at a painting’—
wood ricochet wood ,
varnished enough away
from nightclubs
to creak
, to feel her whole weight
like good sex;
& speak about it with
historical glam—
she reminds me of art
& talks fondly
with cross-eyed ecstasy
at the eighties v.c.r we keep
silent before
but her fruit(
cluttered in jeans
) & heaved up on thighs
paints oil & puckered
over flashing images
wipes out my image of romance
as she regards another piece like
i’vegottophotographthis ( )
a sawtooth of her
years at uni & youthful affection
draped over tomorrow’s dinner
& that is the gallery —
her crossed-arm handbag tussle &
revolving door out into the
distance of thames wind wrangling
hair ,bunched scarf and a smoke at last.
the tate sunday britain
(horses ,flamboyance & pomp
)
on six hours sleep &
smelling sweetly of last
night’s booze
taking her heels
along noisy
the wooden floor
— enough for me
& every slumped pair of glasses
tourist-eye, regular,
chinfingered about the place
to‘ o-she’s-stopped
at a painting’—
wood ricochet wood ,
varnished enough away
from nightclubs
to creak
, to feel her whole weight
like good sex;
& speak about it with
historical glam—
she reminds me of art
& talks fondly
with cross-eyed ecstasy
at the eighties v.c.r we keep
silent before
but her fruit(
cluttered in jeans
) & heaved up on thighs
paints oil & puckered
over flashing images
wipes out my image of romance
as she regards another piece like
i’vegottophotographthis ( )
a sawtooth of her
years at uni & youthful affection
draped over tomorrow’s dinner
& that is the gallery —
her crossed-arm handbag tussle &
revolving door out into the
distance of thames wind wrangling
hair ,bunched scarf and a smoke at last.
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