Jasfoupian Envies
The eighties were spent
in art colleges,
garrets and studios.
And public houses, obviously,
for what can one do but
drink whilst talking about art?
It was a divided
community; the Flesbians avoided
the Metalheads, the
daubers avoided the figurmans
and the queers avoided
the non-fluidians.
We got along, mostly,
if you glossed over the backbiting
and the gender bending
antics of guys
who were just there to
pick up straight girls.
A dear friend had her
top surgery in Bangkok
which made her a
transcontinental. We fell out
before she took it
further. Dramatoes, she called us,
though she was just
upset because we took a lover
that wasn't her. Just
upped and went.
We always knew she had
balls.
Among the liberati and
the pursuers of dreams
were the meatheads and
the pencilscratchers,
the lifts descending to
the pits of hell,
organoids and graphic
design.
We avoided them,
depraved Jasfoupians
in suits and ties, neat
portfolios
and not a smear of
Crimson across their flesh,
nor even our beloved
Paynes.
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