Hockney and I

He’s always tricks of light, you know.

Los Angeles, the East Yorkshire Wolds.

Still acting out his naughty boy ways.

The bug eyed, rabbit pulling schemer.

He paints here upon his phone.

Caress the screen, it’s twitch and drone.

Fingers circling, a bird in the bush.

We are weeds when we live without colour.

But I’ve worked a wage from stage to ditch.

Played the wizard to every lost witch.

And if his art is magical mediocrity. 

Then I’m just sleight of hand too, you see.