Porn King

I'd known him first at school
seen his portfolio
assembled from -
or largely so -
the contents of the art room bin.
Salvaging their rejects
had won him a distinction.

But not content with
with such redemptive work, each week
he'd set art homework for himself.
Monday was his Judgement day.
He'd bring it in for our critiques:
pencil drawings, photographs;
his girl friend draped
impossibly -
and nude, of course -
on rocks or fallen trees
wash basins, baths,
inverted chairs,
a mangle and a boiler.

Though in the real world
not the form of art most coveted,
his pencil drawings
outranked the rest in popularity.
One went for a Meccano set.

A porn king in the making, I suppose.
Even that far back.
But art school's life class
was the catalyst -
though not as you might think.

A coffee break,
relaxing in the corridor,
gossipping and sparring verbally
the students mill around
The model
having donned a robe
comes out to telephone.
The instrument is out of order.
At first she hesitates
then slips out through the main doors
to the public box
not ten yards down the street.

She's back before the
session bell, but not alone,
her former equanimity
destroyed: a great dane,
head and fore-parts thrust
beneath her robe, its rump
and tail still visible, is savouring
a close encounter with
the very part of her anatomy
the pose had most concealed.
Two burly students rescue her
and lead it back into the street.

"There's money, mate in this!" he says.

When I next heard of him, he had dropped out;
had two failed businesses chalked up;
was on his third and fourth,
two private night clubs: "Changelings"
and "The Zoo"; both doing well -
as was he. "By being 'private'
clubs avoid the law",
it was explained to me.
It was closed down.
The Health Authorities, I heard.
Unsavoury activities -
or something - in the kitchen.
I've often wondered what they were...