One more midsummer's eve, just one,
and then I shall become
some pale and ill-fated maiden, bound in the chain links of rosaries in milord's cavernous prayer hall.

Wearing a bride's opal ring, like a teardrop from heaven.
Some infernal dove wept for me
and I boast it on my left ring finger.

Woes hang close. Mine weight me like a tea chest's worth of knotted pearls, or a bridal corset laced marvellously tight.
I flash and darken like a jewelled dragonfly,
dizzied by my own light show, never pausing for breath.

The candle stubs burn weak now.
In the shivery dawn light,
the night air still hangs close and heavy,
Like a thick cloak of regal velvet that I may don
and in doing so disappear forever;
mute, placid, lovely,
a shadow.

The end is nigh, I told them.
It's belted up in that suede jacket of yours,
smoking in the half-light of attic bookshelves.
This night is unclean, I said unto her,
leathered and whimpered, wined and placated.
Have you seen this girl? Hair shines pale under a woollen hat,
answers to "End",
looks good in lipstick and stockings and sweet nothings.
Decant that red charm of yours, madam ghost, I'll pour.

A glossed window, dark pool,
lake Excalibur,
a phantom face swims before her
and it makes for an interesting study of character.

Rain swells and soaks on the sidewalk,
so she trips away on slick heels.
If she does her hair just right,
will a white knight find her?
She wishes he would jolly well hurry up.

So, back in an empty flat,
she darkens her lashes and rouges her knees,
she misses those starlit, champagne yesterdays.
One day she will tango into his arms.

Take up your fur coat,
don the little black suit of armour.
I hate to say it:
I don’t think he’s coming yet, sweetheart.