Antonio’s Studio

The canvases are stained with gin so the
women draped in black look as though
they are standing among rain puddles
and the constellations above them are
swimming, or more likely drowning

the roses for his last still life are
rotting on the window-sill and
the red stains on his smock
could be paint or blood or
wine or a cocktail of all three

he once dropped a razor blade
in the blue of his palette, and
with a few flicks of the wrist
purple streaks scurried down
his arms – or so he alleges

at the open house, an oil
painting hangs: a skeleton
wearing a dunce cap sits in
an electric chair, driving an
ice pick into its eye socket

as his patrons sip champagne
they ask him: Tony, what’s
the message with this one?

well, he shrugs, you kept
asking for a self-portrait.