Jamie Goes To The Tate Poem by Victoria Annette Bailey

Jamie’s on Wednesday,2.30am
Breakfast with Monet at six,
Used in the sunrise, abused at the Moon
Taking her punishment fix.
He returns from work, she’s collapsed at the floor
He takes her then goes for a smoke,
She still has ambition, for fortune and fame
A broken guitar and lyrics she wrote.
Jamie’s creative, but a failure at best
Her prints secured in the paint,
Jamie drinks roses and sleeps in the clouds,
She sees violet and cocktails and Saints.
Jamie lost her religion, on Mansfield Drive
But she sings about God every day,
And then he comes home and she curses the stars,
For his insolent, hostile ways.
Jamie’s been sold for a yacht and a car
Her pose on display at the Tate,
The spectators will see her, the tourists will point
And not know of her violent escape.
He’s stolen her lily, and drawn out her demise,
On his canvas, he painted his Art,
His vacant possession, sprawled on the couch,
His beautiful, emerald-eyed tart.