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Painting Corpses

You paint pictures
while I in boredom paint toes.
I once put rouge on nipples
and coloured in an ochre bruise
just beneath my eyes.
Of course your paintings never sell
and lie in dusty corners
stacked - oh and I forgot to say
I spilt cheap wine on one
tripping upstairs the wine sloshed
I think it looks better that way.
My father calls you an itinerant oaf,
and mother bemoans the fact
that neither of us can play bridge,
it means on rare evenings
that we spend with them
we talk conversation, stilted.
When my toes are dry
I'll walk over to the window
where you stand
painting corpses
with necrophiliac smiles.

Poetry by Elle