Six hours like this for a few francs. / Belly nipple arse in the window light, / he drains the colour from me. Further to the right, / Madame. And do try to be still. / I shall be represented analytically and hung / in great museums. The bourgeoisie will coo / at such an image of a river whore. They call it Art.
Maybe. He is concerned with volume, space. / I with the next meal. You’re getting thin, / Madame, this is not good. My breasts hang / slightly now, the studio is cold. In the tea-leaves / I can see the Queen of England gazing / on my shape. Magnificent, she murmurs, / moving on. It makes me laugh. His name is Georges.