On a top floor of an estate building,
Five flights away from the cause,
Sculpting Arab figurines,
for a Sunday market.
Henry Moore and I went to the same school, We played football together (I was a winger).
We use to speak about form and formations,
4-4-2 and Byzantine heads.
He would bring cheese sandwiches; I would bring bologna (we swapped).
He disliked ornamentalism, I married a former glamour model.
He grew bald, I grew grey.
We both withstood passions for social commentary, kitsch and boxer movies.
We both got burned by Braque (and he still owes me money).
They called him an ordained priest of modern art,
I was named the Shabbetai Tzvi of post-modernism.
He filled Hampstead with mother/child units,
I turned it into a heath.
He was immersed in Peruvian clay and set in the ground,
When I die it will be wrapped in tin foil,
And will lie on the rooftop of the House of Lords.
© 2010 All rights reserved to E Nechin
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