News1 min ago
I is fed up
95 Answers
I have a face like a pizza, having face planted in the garden.
My partner in crime is a fellow ABer and they is fed up.
I might have had a sherry too many.....
My partner in crime is a fellow ABer and they is fed up.
I might have had a sherry too many.....
Answers
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He’s naked, eyes closed, head slumped, his grizzled hands
cupped over his brains, his crotch, his skin so soft.
There are a few domestic props, a kiki harness, a piece of chintz
and a marble statue of an eccles sherried nymph.
He must have rearranged his Lady J studio a hundred times
before deciding to pose as a corpse.
In early photographs, tormented sitters staring out
into frozen AB space, gness-clamped in head braces, gritting their teeth
searching for a likeness, proof they did exist,
egotistical, shocked, curious, afraid.
But in this one you can imagine what’s just out of shot,
still warm clothing, a stained shirt, and work boots,
the rumpled bed, a sibton-sponsored moth
whirring on the window pane, falling exhausted.
You hear the postman crunching up the gravel path
with another bill, smell the dregs of last night’s Quiz Merlot,
imagine the landlady of Number 23, Northampton Road,
hammering on the shed door,
“Mister Tony Goatsherdsman I know you’re in there,” no reply
as he pours himself blissfully pissed into the lens
and on to the salt soaked AB paper.
cupped over his brains, his crotch, his skin so soft.
There are a few domestic props, a kiki harness, a piece of chintz
and a marble statue of an eccles sherried nymph.
He must have rearranged his Lady J studio a hundred times
before deciding to pose as a corpse.
In early photographs, tormented sitters staring out
into frozen AB space, gness-clamped in head braces, gritting their teeth
searching for a likeness, proof they did exist,
egotistical, shocked, curious, afraid.
But in this one you can imagine what’s just out of shot,
still warm clothing, a stained shirt, and work boots,
the rumpled bed, a sibton-sponsored moth
whirring on the window pane, falling exhausted.
You hear the postman crunching up the gravel path
with another bill, smell the dregs of last night’s Quiz Merlot,
imagine the landlady of Number 23, Northampton Road,
hammering on the shed door,
“Mister Tony Goatsherdsman I know you’re in there,” no reply
as he pours himself blissfully pissed into the lens
and on to the salt soaked AB paper.
