This is a photo of my painted Qee.
Earlier that night of the opening, I'd been in oriel park to see born properly, a gallery run by the girls named 'Nimble fox Trappings', whom
currently 'lives' with.
As the invitations indictated, fine wines were on display and available to those who might badger the old fellow serving them. I'd asked for a few during our stay there, during our brief look around at all the various arts and things on show.
When i was alerted to the sounds of Genevieve graves playing her first song in a lush green courtyard, i sped out the front door, along the footpath and onto the brickish ground in a legs-crossed gaze.
Naturally, i spilled red on my white shirt on the way.
As soon as sweet GG had finished her set,
we slumped into a cab alongside
made our way to the FreQee exhibition.
what seemed like hundreds of people.
The bar swarmed and congested.
my head swimming with gentle mind-swimming wines.
white, red, the other.
In a way, i wish my mind was clearer, so i could've taken in more of the night. I have so many recollections that're vague. some that are crystal clear. some that i'll probably never forget. so many people i never got to meet. so many i got to, and i am so glad to've.
Anyway, my point is, my qee:
she's sold now.
...& I never did get a good photo of it.
this one was taken by
look on with love and junk. (and junk)
(and junk was her
last word, to the older croaks
and listed spurs)
(her head held back as she spewed
forth blurbs, the words becoming
the wisest furls)
(we caged our keepsakes and
letters written warned of the
futility of my gaping
(we all want to hold hands
with the shuffling winking worms)
(and the corkle-simmered nestle
in my ribs for all the world)|
(gee and gosh and shucks
and sheesh and eff the effing eff)
(there is a wall space left for you
and me, the dungeon left by the
late, young pleff)