Simple are the facts, because there’s little to know
She’s from West Wickham and he from Pimlico.
They first met at the bar, upon the East Slope
Her smile was pure sunshine and he passed the dope,
They danced in Queens Park and giggled at farts
He learnt Drama and she studied Fine Arts.
Their existence was fun, they’d make others drool
Trendy and vibrant, the It couple of cool;
Time speeds by, through trouble free days
Emily worked with oils and Jacob on his plays,
Long nights were invested in the University bar
Jacob’s farther brought him, a second hand car.
In their Lilac Figaro, they’d race around town
In bandana and Ray Bans – while acting the clown.
Emily’s mum says, that she had found a nice lad
Endearingly polite and intelligent liked her Dad,
They listened to Patti Smith and all that pazazz
To Guthrie, to Holiday and to Post War Jazz.
Only then to pursue the myth of the lemming
She called him her Pushkin and he called her his Emin,
Vegetarian cuisine in delight they’d scoff
While discussing Cezanne and the labours of Chekhov.
They defined their subculture, The Provocative Knife
An intensely gregarious and exhilarating life,
Things can’t get any better, this existence so fine
Long night’s extreme, sent shivers down the spine;
An iconic huge picture hung above their bed
Of Sid and Nancy in New York, leaves little to be said.
Because kissing God, made the race to long to run
Creating manic persona in the treasurer trove of fun.
Its only recreational chipping – that’s easy to handle
Enjoying Mexican black tar, by the heat of a candle,
Experimenting isn’t juvenile and never too late
All artists use substances, to help them create?
We are not going back – it’s too much of a climb
Developing Jacob’s characters, who only talk in rhyme.
I my heads’ a little dickey I need some alignment
Emily missed lectures and her modular assignment,
In angry denial, not a raging bloody psychosis
It is only just part, of the creative process!
When she returned home – from the Goblin one night
The flat smelt strange, something’s not right,
She screamed with shock, then raised the alarm
Jacob is motionless with a tourniquet on his arm.
His sick encrusted body, was sprawled across the bed
With eyes glaringly open, least that’s what she said.
Now five years on, with new friends to thank
She works at the Haywood, on the Southbank;
Feeling guilty sometimes – but she doesn’t forget
Now the odd glass of wine, the occasional cigarette
The art on her wall, is a homage to Van Gogh
So the older one gets, is it the more you know?
Now engaged to a bloke who’s driven and manly
Works long office hours, for Morgan Stanley,
In the summer they holiday and play lawn tennis
Singapore, Bali and don’t forget Venice.
The future is perfect and all they would plan
His parents nudging jokes, who’ll call them gran.
But in her Battersea flat, with spare time she has
She still plays the blues and that post war jazz.
