In which Tom Wesselman and Allen Jones discuss the objectification of women

Tom: I really dig your oeuvre Al, the fearlessness, the British kink

Allen: Thank you Tom, and yours. The flatness. You do like open mouths, don’t you?

Oh yes, the close proximity of phallic substitutes. And you, the heels?

Ah, always the heels Tom, the taut calf, the arch, the sheen, the shine

It seems we’re wowing and outraging them in equal measure

Sex sells, it’s good publicity

And our work really is ironic, right? 

Of course it is, dear boy

Hamburg


A recent report said that there 
is no structural racism in Britain
It must be true
they announced it
on TV
Black lives don’t matter
Covid is a conspiracy
There is no glass ceiling
Wars are won by the righteous 
Politicians are faithful and honest 
and Hitler is alive and well
hiding in deep cover
as a geriatric drag artist
still shaking his thing
in a suburb of Hamburg

Shoe Poems

Way-finder Shoes

with animal tracked soles
Deer, Hedgehog, Badger, Fox, Frog
and a secret compass 
inside a recess inside the heel
to help conjure animal spirits
to confound the US Cavalry
with baffling trails
then find your way back home



Voodoo Shoes

had soles with voodoo masks 
African, Inca, Mohican, Zulu, Mexican 
and Haitian, the only shoes
‘With the Strength of the Voodoo’
Not much use against
the likes of Andy Harrison
a boy of uncertain moods
who had demons of his own

Field Observations


Long walk over rutted ground, forget the toll on ankles and knees
think about improving your balance

Water in the ditches, and in the field edge, scatterings, weathered half-bricks
and white tiles. An old house? 

A green lane the dog hates, she cowers, tail down, and wants to run 
because of the firing range, and the bird-scarers

Past the halfway point there is a track, leading to a copse. The hand painted
sign says ‘Private Rod’. I imagine a raw recruit, all Adam’s apple and wing-nut ears

The empty farmhouse, slates missing, with a caravan behind. We thought they
we’re fixing it up. Instead they are knocking it down

A sign attached to a telephone pole says we have 28 days to object
although we probably won’t

Inside a green cathedral, lit with blackthorn blossom, bursting
with white froth, I want to say ‘billowing’, or shout it

The wind has shifted to the North, and cold, though when the clouds part
there is real heat in the sun

We are getting our lockdown steps in. Today’s walk is nine thousand steps
which sounds a lot, but is only around four miles. Thoreau would laugh

Moon Fandango

(Percy Honri 1901)

The man in the moon
Is not the man in the moon

Oh yes, he shines his yellow light
hangs suspended in the sky

full and fat enough to make you
think, it is, it’s him alright

Tonight, he came up slow and sad
his old face cracked and gurning

a ‘look at me!’ moon-man
a very knowing moon-man

an over-acting moon-man
pouting and rolling his eyes

A ukulele appeared, and so he played
a melancholy moon-tune

And, as he played
his ludicrously small feet danced

in tiny moon-man shoes, they danced
not any kind of dance you’d know

they danced the moon
they danced the moon
they danced the moon fandango

4 Rites for Early Spring

Bird rite - make wings from fallen branches, climb the tallest tree you can, sing any song you know with a bird in it, from start to finish, out loud

Reparation rite - use cardboard from your online orders to make a person sized sculpture of a tree, then apologise to it

Walking rite - find a new pathway to walk, walk it alone; walk it in rain, wind and sun, then give it a name

Fire rite - write a poem about fire. Go outside. Set fire to it. As it burns, speak the words as you remember them