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:
Love this and you. I'm sorry the memories come so painfully.
Thank you. It was a long time ago :)
You - my friend - are amazing.
Thanks, Aims. This was the eighties, and I was young and foolish.
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