The Change Part 8: Life Model
As if turning a tap off the black stopped
It no longer worked
This grief I’d cooked up had no flavour.
Eight weeks of looking at a life size
Black and white photo of my father
In nothing but his underpants and a trombone
Posing for the camera
There is was hung.
Outside my office
Passing it back and forth, to class, to lunch on my break,
back and forth
Past dad – say Hi, be nice
Made his death so real.
Grief was a burned pudding
Burned and bitter and black
Toffee stuck to the bottom of the pan
Black and gritty
Ad Reinhardt had it
The prismatic colours of black are a spare beauty,
the matrix of red black, green black, grey black,
blue black, yellow black, purple black,
arranged and formed into a perfect unwholesomeness.
Delicious chargrilled stone baked bottom blackened black rye
loaf
A blackberry and squid ink spaghetti
Burned
Humiliated
Shamed,
Ignored,
Stumbling embarrassment.
He was well known around the pubs and clubs
His jazz band was the toast of town,
celebrated and whooped to by teachers,
jazzers and artists
He was well known as a life model,
as a musician and the party starter.
King Alfred’s cakes – burned to a crisp
And there he was in all his glory.
The first couple of weeks
I couldn’t even look at the picture
But later I got it.
He shows off
Loves having his photograph taken
Loves to be listened to
Loved the singular attention the front man gets.
Singer, cheer leader for the band
Rule breaker, anarchist
Not afraid to be different
be noticed.
The centre of the party
All this too - I get
The photograph shows the father I’d rather not see
And know that I have a bit too.
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