An Artist must die (shy party)

An Artist must die (shy party)

The room is quiet

save for low anticipatory talk

gecko cliques cling to the walls

shadowed against the cracking  web of tributaries of the Ox collection 1989

Tonguing Merlot

almost ambient like whale calls

who’d rather be at home; a 200 year leisure

for finishing that pile of top 100s

Drawn together by desperation

just one room of lost child stars

with coffee island in the middle

Lichen, mossed empires of cheese on sticks and hor d’oeuvres

Communist gymnasts, climate deniers and  Bloomsbury bum-fluffed adolescents

scholars

in NHS specs

and those old words, burdened words

Fragile yet impenetrable

once packaged and perfected in inert fibreglass labs

by lexicographers somewhere

No one falls down the stairs, no Stoppordian stumble

No light shades as an inversed fez

No dancing and there’s no male gaze for Iris

Everyone leaves without a sound; she

Might not exist.

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