I can remember the visceral longing for
the Russell and Bromley Diabla shoes
burned red and stackheeled that made
you put one foot before the other and
stalk the scene like a slap on the head
and a skirt that hung flat from hip bone
to hip bone black-on-white countered
dogtooth and chalkstriped in red ochre
that said sex and queened your paces
two years on and the scene had gone
as had the fuck-may-care desire to slap
they had shifted all my shit from a-to-b
there were so many things I still wanted
to be but poet was not amongst them
(so enough said)
Adding your comment:
forget all that...slip
C
