the maypunk powders
her face in sulphate
pins a thin-lipped
corrugated mouth
with slurred arrogance
rough-rouged hubris
the maypunk snaps
those boneyard fingers
slits-empowered
x-ray spectacled
her banshee wail
both dali & dalek
the maypunk argues
in leather trousers
piss-stained & worse
bigging up binbags
& other such rubbish
on national tv
the maypunk sits
in towering phallus
spiralling rightways
dispatching emissaries
to scrape off the gob
hoiked in her face
the maypunk struts
the old kings road
go see the queen
god fucking save her
meet the fascists
she means it man
the maypunk holes up
at the chelsea hotel
self-soiled & needy
bloody-handed
like lady macbeth
she cooks up her death.
By Pete Donohue
Pete Donohue works in community mental health in amazing Hastings on the Dirty South Coast of a proudly multi-cultural England and preserves his dubious sanity through creative writing, drawing, editing, reviewing and performing poetry and music.
Twitter: @petedonohuepoet