Tuesday, 26 July 2016

poem 2016 / 071

Gallery Show

Clinking glasses, the muted
conversation of intelluctuals
(and those trying to pass as one)
cigarette smoke curling up to the oak beam ceiling.
This is the eighties and we're all artists,
thin Virgins and Old Holborn Borstals;
roaches made of rolled Rizla packets
to stop dusty tobacco caking your lungs.
The paintings are charming, primitive style
depictions of middle class families;
kids playing football while dads fight
with broken bottles over who's the better goalie.
The artist herself is petite, huge,
about to drop a baby but she doesn't know
who the dad is (she's narrowed it to three.)
I pay her attention but Steve is not amused.
At home he backhands me,
puts my cheek through my back teeth.
Blood on yellow walls.
“You fancied her, didn't you?”
Yes, of course, she was lovely but
I didn't make a pass at her. (She seemed
pretty straight anyway, to be honest)
I've said the wrong thing again.
He makes me gargle honesty with silence.



Image: Red Demon 2016 30" x 30" Oil on board. £120 inc P&P

4 comments:

Stephanie Wright said...

Love this and you. I'm sorry the memories come so painfully.

Rachel Green said...

Thank you. It was a long time ago :)

aims said...

You - my friend - are amazing.

Rachel Green said...

Thanks, Aims. This was the eighties, and I was young and foolish.