It's Still Life

A Conversation with a Rogue Taxidermy

I know a girl who says
she’s not sure how she
came to be here, sitting
on a metal folding chair,
wearing a white silk gown,

a corseted tight-waisted
atrocity. She’s a harpist,
back row over to the left,
her right, and she plucks
away wearing silky gloves.

Whose fool idea – wearing
gloves whilst plucking at
strings. She perpetually
moans, harps on about the
life-sucking and stinking
airlessness of it all.

Of Andre-Rieu-ish waltz-
playing Strauss. It even
has a name, she says. It’s
called Classical Crossover,
like rear-ending a Hummer.

I’m a rogue taxidermy,
she says, I’d rather play
folk crust punk, and play
first row solidarity, and
play like The Pogues.

Truth be told, she grins,
I’d rather have muddy
knees, grubby fat fingers
and hangnails. In truth,
I’d rather be a farmer.

 for Visual Verse September image prompt.