Sid Vicious
Sid Vicious,
Like an inkblot dropped on a fifty pound note
And spread around with alcohol breath,
Blown by a child
To make a spindly shape
Of skinny arms and legs…
Then he rubbed himself out,
And all that was left was the money on the table.
But…
A conjuring trick
And he appears again.
The pasty white face
And the black leather jacket,
They print so well
On the heavy, glossy page.
Wine glass in hand,
The pre-dinner-party
Shelf Inspection.
And there he is, Mister Simon John Ritchie,
Ultimate Coffee Table Art Book Punk.