Patricia Preece
By Jack Cade
- 1572 reads
Jon and I moved further out, away from the high street
We came to the dried out moor
where the old main road used to wind
He wouldn't stop talking about Stanley Spencer
I looked back and the village behind us
was covered in streaming, billowing dust-sheets
I recalled one painting propped up in the gallery:
Stanley and his mistress, Patricia Preece,
both naked and languid on a bed,
their bodies like limp tongues, his drooping prick,
her breasts, her flesh all Venus -
white at its heart, but raw lamb at its borders,
and pools of almost gentian bruises
Her walnut mouth, her purple grapes for eyes,
Her cruel eyebrows.
Under the Judas tree, I asked him,
"Who's your Patricia Preece?
Who would you paint yourself with, naked and bored?"
He immediately answered, "You. Who else?"
"Then who's your Hilda Carline?" I persisted
"Who's your Shirin and Unity?
Who will divorce you because of me?"
He showed me these lines
and a loose concertina of other letters
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