Standing Female Nude

Poem

Six hours like this for a few francs
Belly nipple arse in the window light,
he drains the colour from me. Further to the right
Madame. And do try to be still.
I shall be represented analytically and hung
in great museums. The bourgeoisie will coo
at such an image of a river whore. They call it Art.

Maybe. He is concerned with volume and space,
I with the next meal. You’re getting thin,
Madame, this is not good. My breasts hang
slightly low, the studio is cold. In the tea leaves
I can see the Queen of England gazing
on my shape. Magnificent, she murmurs,
moving on. It makes me laugh. His name

is Georges. They tell me he’s a genius.
There are times he does not concentrate
and stiffens for my warmth.
He possesses me on a canvas, as he dips the brush
repeatedly into the paint. Little man,
you’ve not the money for arts I sell.
Both poor, we make our living how we can.

I ask him, Why do you do this? Because
I have to. There’s no choice. Don’t talk.
My smile confuses him. These artists
take themselves too seriously. At night, I fill myself
with wine and dance around the bars. When it’s finished,
he shows me proudly, lights a cigarette. I say
Twelve francs. And get my shawl. It does not look like me.

Title

Analysis

Six hours like this for a few francs

Belly nipple arse in the window light,

he drains the colour from me. Further to the right

Madame. And do try to be still.

I shall be represented analytically and hung

in great museums. The bourgeoisie will coo

at such an image of a river whore. They call it Art.


Maybe. He is concerned with volume and space,

I with the next meal. You’re getting thin,

Madame, this is not good. My breasts hang

slightly low, the studio is cold. In the tea leaves

I can see the Queen of England gazing

on my shape. Magnificent, she murmurs,
moving on. It makes me laugh. His name


is Georges. They tell me he’s a genius.

There are times he does not concentrate
and stiffens for my warmth.

He possesses me on a canvas, as he dips the brush

repeatedly into the paint. Little man,

you’ve not the money for arts I sell.

Both poor, we make our living how we can.


I ask him, Why do you do this? Because
I have to. There’s no choice. Don’t talk.

My smile confuses him. These artists

take themselves too seriously. At night, I fill myself
with wine and dance around the bars. When it’s finished,

he shows me proudly, lights a cigarette. I say
Twelve francs. And get my shawl. It does not look like me.