Sunday, 30 November 2008

the old painters daughter

the chesterfield
and the lamplit room
that round dark table
and a leather book cover
settle in for a decade
...... or two

standalone museums
they are
like nora
who plays solitaire
with her vodka

she has the sharpest wit
and an ironic twinkle
and then she has the hats

draped across the octopus
i call it ...
hats hats hats
a hat stand that brims with life
like a waterfall
in the hallway

she doesn't see me
so I make myself some tea
and sprinkle what sugar
is left from the rim of a jar
and settle on black
cause she likes my whims

she wants to paint me
i would like that ...
she thinks my beanie
is the colour of blood
and she likes that
she has paintings
in the art gallery
and her father
was a great landscape
a print was on my wall
as a child

but she doesn't paint me
she just wants to talk
about the harbour
and how kings cross
used to be
and how kings cross
always is

she says
leave your beanie on
i know its a little warm
but it glows
right on top of your head
i say
does it make me look
like a matchstick

she laughs and says
put that nasty looking tea away
and have a bloody vodka