‘Picasso’s not all he’s cracked up to be.’

He’d had a few by then, but understood

The dangers of hype and adulation

Of the spineless, unconditional kind.

We were on the last train from Fenchurch Street;

Among the massed drunks now quiet or depressed,

The air was thick with smoke and rancid ale.

At first, when he leant over to my side,

I groaned, half-expecting some hard-luck yarn.

But this was an artist; gone bad, for sure,

Through years of commuting and City grind,

But deep down the urge remained – to question,

To create, to bring passion to a void.

At Purfleet, he jumped off. The flame still burned.