‘Baby let’s fuck.’
And that was a fast curtain to a final bad act;
Wild ponies dragging his cock across naked flowers
Crushing the truth under check- cashing hips
and fried fiction.
‘Call the Press! Save that dress!’
And those slipper-soft french nylons;
The skirted innocence of champagne bubbles
Drowns the silken pout of mistaken trouble .
And he wants to eat pussy all the time now
His mouth is full of soap opera bubbles
The cold blooded sting of sobriety slaps his tongue
the morning after
And he scrawls the wall with jizz and paint
Mixing messages about Basquiat and Bartok.
He sits alone and sees gold painted devils
Seeping under the floors trying to reach his secret.
His face is webbed with thorny excuses and alibis;
Red clouds like omens hang across shrunken skies
Mister America grasps the toilet bowl
A gigantic pimple bleeding on his soul
He has never seen a poetic sweat shop
But if he did he’d burn it down.
Illustration Nick Victor