For seventy years
we've been told to strip back to the bone.
Lose the fat.
Take away three superfluous lines.
but surely this is the art of austerity?
Skeletal anorexic art?
I want fine fat Reubenesque women in my work.
Their exposed pale flesh flaccid with care.
Something I can get my teeth into.
In my notebooks, I want naked Ethiopians oiled like champions
The sable sheen of their muscles pumping and their lantern eyes flashing,
As they hunt and sport with my nude Diana across the plains of Argos
Bring back popery. I want great baroque dances.
Forget the road to Wigan pier with its Orwellian rules
Come and dream with me on my Acanthus bed
