The painting was a jazz band
with fishfinger heads and we wore
black like Guinness, we
drank. They listened to her voice,
like candied orange peels and
blue satin shoes. And
the drunks were quiet.
Six pm and already we were
skinned knees and slipshod,
scravenging on the floor.
Already we were rancid and
caked in coloured pastes to hide
behind. Already loud and spilled,
They forgave us, though, because
of the voice, the peep of lace, and the
pecan. Because we were pretty then,
it was early, and the night spread on.