The painter pats his pockets in a panic,
though he knows he’s lost his brush.
He’s fumbling filthy cloths.
His sitter’s standing up.
Whilst each painted face is an artist
their art is not but lust.
No sweet talk can make them blush,
not for real.
There’s a man can light match sticks on his hands,
but understand he pricks his lip
each time he brings his finger to it
and whispers “shush”.
Just like a priest
He said he lived his life by the book,
but he never, ever told me
in which book he’d looked.
He said he knew every trick inside it,
but couldn’t shake off his favourite thing
was just the title,
and the beauty of the binding.