She wore bright glossy

Humbug tights.


Aw ****,

the way she smoked

her Marlboro Lights

was pornographic.

She flicked her smoke rings

at the traffic

and was blown to bits by

cheap hairspray.

(Considering my love of Jean Genet,

I told her ‘you make sense this way.’

She smiled and clicked

a ****** heel.

‘Holy ****! How real you feel!’

Not that I have points of reference.)

Stop confusing my ******* preference

with La-La-Lola Soho Kink.

Your lips are painted ***** pink

and you wrap them round

your glass and down

your Lambrini-Girls Pre-Party

drink.

(I want you against my kitchen sink!)

And naked -

How you overplayed it!

I think you were a bit

afraid

of both your halves,

your masquerade,

your matching scars.

(What did mermaids do to

all their sailors

struck by stars?)


You’re a crazy fusion,

Top-heavy wonder.

You’re a woman, my dear -

and you pulled me under.