Saturday, 8 October 2011

Easy Come

My muse hasn’t been used

She sees friends at weekends

She eats a house

The size of a mouse

My muse is out

And not a Queen

Her legs have to be daily shaved


She skips showers

And twirls like an amateur

Ballerina with salmonella

Her fingernails are the size

Of boat sails

Though her age says she’s experienced

(Are you?) she doesn’t let me

Do that thing

My muse has a short attention fuse

That blows

And from three floors high

She jumps off the ledge

Into a hollybush

When her widow mother calls

The phone rings off

And I hold one hand

That she tries to slip out of

My muse’s bare shoulders

My muse’s blancmange and

The puncture

She rides at one speed

Her stained panties

The head clouds

My muse and a run down


Her topless photo’s in my sock drawer

My muse off the leash

The stick in the wheel

My muse spells spelling with one l

And is the doppelganger of her mother’s mother

(The picture’s hanging in the living room)

She wears socks and loses lighters

My muse has used an old toilet

At Le Rubis in Paris

She has chalk hands and movie teeth

I can’t say her postcard

Maybe it’s an arrondissement

Or Borough

I met her on a beach as it rained

I met her eating a rare hamburger

I saw her first in Our Lady of Consolation, Dublin

In a car parked on a yellow line

Leaning out a window on Loz Feliz Boulevard

Getting a stick of butter

Throwing peanuts at monkeys

Wearing a tank top in a communist bar

She begs her way out of the bag

Of fines and queues

She can scrape by on un peu de l’argent

My muse goes in the out door

Runs through green men

Grazes on seeds and cold soup

She jumps rails and gets supplies

From supporting parents.

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