we stepped into the gallery; stepped onto pristine marble floors, sheen-decked, with our grubby school shoes like mud on palace gates; stepped into a world of suits and champagne and jewelry, of cheese we couldn't pronounce, of empty speeches and pretence; "******* ***", as you put it.
we walked around the exhibition, you weren't all that impressed and you didn't really keep quiet about it.
you were the only one, I think.
rich powerful men scare me.
we walked down the hall, past twenty closed doors, extending as if mirrored to infinity;
you were still unimpressed, "This doesn't really work," you said. "I feel like he's done Everything he can with this style."
I think the same but I don't say the same. rich powerful men scare me.
I wonder if they're ******* their daughters behind those closed doors.
a poem about visiting a high end photography opening with my friends