ISSN 1758-6488
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Two poems Poetry |
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Peter Crutch Addresses Blotter Figure
in response to David Hockney’s portrait, Peter C.
Staring—? My eyes are open
and you’re there. Let’s call it luck.
I’m the boy with his heart made of paint
and his name stencilled like a banner,
twice. How’s that for privacy?
And everyone knows about David.
Don’t tell him please that I stalked you
standing with strangers often.
It was innocent really, from here,
watching them wanting to touch you.
The day you arrived, I was spellbound.
Soft packing beads spilled into
the hollow impression of your body,
Sandra, beside herself, camera snapping
and the porters, more tender than usual.
I guess you know about the chair.
It’s no secret. I designed it for him,
cutting the length of his thighs exactly
but it was me he really wanted
and we never sat down in that chair.
Framed in two pieces, he pinned me
together because I stand so beautifully.
He gave me legs and these jeans
with seams he wished to get into, but
relax, I’ve no such intentions with you.
I can see there’s no way into your folds
and no way out, especially not for you.
Humour an old man, won’t you?
Now you’re the most beautiful boy. You lead
with a blind man’s cane and I follow.
