DRESSED TO KILL
A kind of inverse vanity: she buys
ex-Army combat gear in brown and green
as camouflage. It's baggy, twice her size,
but she knows what's dead cool in 'Seventeen.'
She's dynamite, just like the magazine:
slim, self-absorbed, packed full of 'beauty' tips.
She ties a spangled belt round boyish hips,
laces her steel-toed boots, waxes her hair,
sticks out her tongue between half-snarling lips,
admires the stud. Her tattoed arms are bare.
When she was nine, she went on shopping trips
with Mummy Dear dictating what she'd wear:
smocked frocks, white socks, soft curls with Kirkby grips -
not like the other kids. They'd laugh and stare.
She soon learned not to cry ... then not to care.
The quickest way, she found, was to disguise
herself, pretend, plan, ambush and surprise
them all - now hardened, anorexic, mean.
Yet stll she sees through alienated eyes
a small fat girl in pale pink crepe de chine.
A kind of inverse vanity: she buys
ex-Army combat gear in brown and green
as camouflage. It's baggy, twice her size,
but she knows what's dead cool in 'Seventeen.'
She's dynamite, just like the magazine:
slim, self-absorbed, packed full of 'beauty' tips.
She ties a spangled belt round boyish hips,
laces her steel-toed boots, waxes her hair,
sticks out her tongue between half-snarling lips,
admires the stud. Her tattoed arms are bare.
When she was nine, she went on shopping trips
with Mummy Dear dictating what she'd wear:
smocked frocks, white socks, soft curls with Kirkby grips -
not like the other kids. They'd laugh and stare.
She soon learned not to cry ... then not to care.
The quickest way, she found, was to disguise
herself, pretend, plan, ambush and surprise
them all - now hardened, anorexic, mean.
Yet stll she sees through alienated eyes
a small fat girl in pale pink crepe de chine.
THAT DRESS
A snake-skin print, silk-lined and ankle length;
it shimmers on the hanger out of reach
of her right hand and purse. Bright blood runs hot
along her left arm in a counterplot.
Three credit cards are burning and with each
she could set fire to Ilium's ancient strength.
She'd launch a thousand shipe in viscose, cut
close to her moulded shoulders, serpent hips.
Inside the changing room, she hears the beat
of hearts and drums as minds are in retreat.
She angles in the mirror; yet her lips
part for a moment, breathe one cool word: 'but.'
Someone will pay for this great surge of lust,
this rush of heat, this trembling to possess.
She can't afford to sign, but she's for sale.
Will armies fight for her? Her face is pale
as she slips out with that too-costly dress.
Someone will pay, not her, but someone must.
DIVIDENDS
Chilled chicken kiev and pork chops
ride in her trolley down the aisle
with Hob-nobs, dog tins, milk, a pile
like last week's with ice-lollipops
to cool the mood at four o'clock -
school run with half-a-dozen kids.
The trolley's front wheels stick, it skids
and jams. She wrenches it, takes stock:
that's fifty pounds well spent to feed
the products of her courtship drive.
The aisle she walked at twenty-five
led straight to this one, guaranteed
that what she'd paid for lip-stick, tights,
the flashy bonus points of sex,
balcony bras, Lycra, Lurex
would buy her special-offer nights
and days like this. She kicks the wheels,
slides crab-wise to the check-out till,
her gold-card smile just fits the bill
for comfort foods and pre-planned meals
and oil in case her axle sqeals.
To return to the Home Page click here
A snake-skin print, silk-lined and ankle length;
it shimmers on the hanger out of reach
of her right hand and purse. Bright blood runs hot
along her left arm in a counterplot.
Three credit cards are burning and with each
she could set fire to Ilium's ancient strength.
She'd launch a thousand shipe in viscose, cut
close to her moulded shoulders, serpent hips.
Inside the changing room, she hears the beat
of hearts and drums as minds are in retreat.
She angles in the mirror; yet her lips
part for a moment, breathe one cool word: 'but.'
Someone will pay for this great surge of lust,
this rush of heat, this trembling to possess.
She can't afford to sign, but she's for sale.
Will armies fight for her? Her face is pale
as she slips out with that too-costly dress.
Someone will pay, not her, but someone must.
DIVIDENDS
Chilled chicken kiev and pork chops
ride in her trolley down the aisle
with Hob-nobs, dog tins, milk, a pile
like last week's with ice-lollipops
to cool the mood at four o'clock -
school run with half-a-dozen kids.
The trolley's front wheels stick, it skids
and jams. She wrenches it, takes stock:
that's fifty pounds well spent to feed
the products of her courtship drive.
The aisle she walked at twenty-five
led straight to this one, guaranteed
that what she'd paid for lip-stick, tights,
the flashy bonus points of sex,
balcony bras, Lycra, Lurex
would buy her special-offer nights
and days like this. She kicks the wheels,
slides crab-wise to the check-out till,
her gold-card smile just fits the bill
for comfort foods and pre-planned meals
and oil in case her axle sqeals.
To return to the Home Page click here
