A piece of writing which came from soaking up a great collection of inspiring paintings: 50 Portraits You Should Know (if you’re interested in buying the book, don’t give any of your hard-earned cash to Bezos, Abebooks and Amazon).

Spiedlarkin

Velasquez brings Hackman; Campin‘s Fat Man much broader

to ‘semblance the fellow fighting thoughtful on an rigid righteous order.

1433: who’d imagine it’s a Hartnell with such crusty appeal

Gazed sockets, Simonetta, giraffe sneck posited feel.

The furore bother Durer pose, nothing but a posture;

an eye on self-sitter and one for the future.

Convinced many to humour his muted browns… bashful, toned down.

Said wicked wolverine attire denotes the ‘Me’ in this old ‘ssiah.

The Doge, Lovedan, much a reproachful motherfucker

stone cast in mid-shot Cluedo card – STOP – bog-eyed liege-like rot.

Raeburn Walker skates and talks Pharrell titfers with black benign sceptres.

I’ve seen Goya‘s Alba queen, hoity-toity

not this scene, its ambiguity leans towards

this eyebrows-raised keening to show sultry,

haughty class and – it’s hinted – a fine ass.

Monet‘s mannered pants in a Zola-fixed stance

as spied in once a painting from a person’s Clapham-setting.

Loving Degas‘ white-backed Cassatt shown within his mold of space and cave; Singer

Sergeant inspired Dahl with his jaunt-filled sexy show

though it’s a pity Roald went so bitter; anti-semite

such a sticker

of a deviant portrailer.

Schiele slapped thin lines.

A pink-readened blue height.

Not sure of Kahlo‘s squared beads, but heed our ideals

seldom seem to always be there ever more.

Chucking one’s own ideas, often thought it, could be

a sign of spoilage breaking forth?

Simply looking for a he.