43o

...and she stands on the hotwetblacktar as it’s slowly puddled rust coloured from her blown radiator.
The liquid oozes like blood onto her 2pm frustrations,
3 lanes either side, calls made- others on their way.
The pt’s free today, mostly to give the inspectors a heatwave holiday-
they made their money yesterday anyway.
I know, it was my tongue on that lie. My revenue, accounted for.
My benefits sized-up and seized.
Heat makes people crazy,
makes people toss their infants off bridges in early morning traffic-
makes threats tangible.
I scurry for a patch of conditioned air-
a pocket of cool, a snowball in hell,
and find one full of colours and collected pieces of other artists time n’soul…
I seek peter Booth, hoping his thick pigments will teach me something,
this over written work could kick me just right- it has before.
Instead I find Dobell and Fariweather, works I’ve tried to reproduce at play.

What do they say?
If anything at all?

Gascoigne shows me boredom’s cheese-grater-play and affect on the humane,
like a slap in the face, I ask can the squeamish heat of this land make it,
whole and taste-able, onto canvas?
I walk on, alone, thinking and sweating- what is it, that I want from me?
Are my degrees, equal to this 43?
You know if you know, are ya'keeping up, with me…