Skindeep - 70 x 70 cm, acrylic and charcoal on paper
HOLY JEANS
Back then music was everywhere. Results were mixed:
the garage band across the street never got
past the opening chords of Sunshine Of Your love.
Who was the hang up? Slowhand not slow enough?
Ginger Baker’s drum roll a little too stoned? We’ll never know.
On the corner of Arkansas and Texas there was,
suitably enough, a run-down ranchette, overgrown,
weedy yard, big branched red state tree
drooping out front. Within, a witch brooded.
Fact, humans don’t give a shit about facts: we want indecorous
drama, beautiful lies, Main Street baton twirlers. On a day after
school she rolled up popping a wheelie, a different sort
of witch, Saint Christopher necklace pendulous
from her brown neck (dirt/sun combo). Her favorite song
was Hey Jude. Why? ” Because it’s about a dog.”
The older witch docked her drunken boat
of a station wagon, bag of fresh pharmaceuticals
in a death grip. The only words she ever spoke to us:
“Kindly get the fuck off my lawn.”
Which, I would suggest, was more vernacular than imprecatory.
