Insects Landing In Formation

The insects landed in formation – just as he had started painting, irritation, concentration on the opus of his canvas

It was a portrait of himself, dark and brooding – thoughtful even – this could really make him famous that was till the insects landed

Weirdy sort of day it was, that sci-fi lighting – not quite raining – easel on his patch of concrete, ‘courtyard garden’ if you will -

Mirror from the bathroom – upright - and it showed him in reflection, this was right before the radio - it was tuned - ‘political’

Changed the channel to some classics, started outline - ‘Oyster Blue’, spot of ‘Mustard’ on the forehead, cheeks of ‘Anvil’, lips of ‘Leather’

Nipping in to wash his brushes, skies had darkened, change of weather – now the bloody phone was ringing, should he answer, oh For Fuck Sake

Blanks the ringing - then thinks better, picks the thing up with a sigh, father starts to ask his questions, knew he’d get it in the neck

Not listening to the BBC – so sinful – father never has it off, likes the news best then some music, he’s quite the intel-ekktual

To his family in his boasting, numbers now are dwindling though, haven’t died – they just can’t stand him - never new material

The painter does not dare to tell him, he’s creating just at present – this would drive the old man nuts, a diatribe, a venomous vent

He ends the call now, back to painting, sticky, sweaty, wiping beads from off his brow - on returning, finds however that his canvas has been rent

Unsellable, the flies have landed, stuck now in acrylic paint

An Art-Macabre, as they’re still moving, makes him feel quite bilious

It later dries, he hates it, angry – so called friends who like to tease

Others see it, like to comment, jokes to sell at Sotherbees

He’s heard them all now, none are funny but he’s thinking, curious

That bloke who made a film from insects – Moths – and he’s a genius

Why not flog it to some art-types, tell them its in ‘abstract form’?

The Art-Macabre now hangs so proudly, in a Rock Star’s gallery

His visitors nod sagely at it, frown and step in for a close-up, step back quickly, swallow bile

The insects landed in formation, even for a little while but what they actually did that day will now go down

As History

Now he’s being sought out widely - by the glitter-art-ery - and he’s really making money, thinks it funny, dad is dead

He has invented a new genre – ‘Art Macabre’ – the press has said - he’s not bothered, sitting, waiting

For the forecast patiently

And every time the skies are darkening, sits a canvas on his knee