My only attempt at performance poetry!

FOLIES BERGERES


i.

The artist slowly eyed me from his bar stool
in the Covent Garden pub;
he took a long drag from his cigarette
and blew softly skywards.
"You're lovely, my dear", he said
"But you should never wear red"...

He had summarised the parameters
of the whole of my conscious existence
in just six words:

Red says it all.

ii.

He told me I was beautiful.
He told me I was gay.
He told me I was charming
like my birthday month of May.
But why should I believe him
if he said I was a star -
when his eyes they looked
straight through me
to the blonde behind the bar?

iii.

No, I'll get my own drink, thanks.
No, I don't want my portrait painted...

Is it like this on the South Bank of the Seine:
all fake gas lamps and schmalz?
Surely this is pure Renoir!

iv.

Ah, what the heck...

Bring on the high
black lace-up boots,
the frothing can-can skirts;
and make them scarlet, crimson,
ruby, vermilion, claret,
carmine and red;

Perhaps not "won't", for just this once,
it's "I will-will" instead!