just when you thought you'd got it made

oh-but-oh-
there they go
out the door
here we are again
back to counting the pennies
and the driving test with the L-plates on,
and waiting in the queue
for ugly school dinners,
back to tea on your lap
and missing the end of Eastenders.
back to masturbation and misery.
back to Manchester,
back to the hidden.
back to clichéd clare,
zombied frenzy killer queen…

she little girl lost in the woods
with a crazed piano?
NO? she horror score writer
with her eye on the trigger?
NO? she a black force
in a terrible night
of ardour and small vapour?
NO? she a gig and a triumph
and a fully stocked larder?
NO? is she a crumpled sheet
without even any stains to honour?
NO. is she crimson?
is she Welsh and proud for once?
is she a titan or a muse?
forever baking bread at the witching hour,
she never even got this far
and she’s
none of those tiredly things,
she is splendid
fired up on crystal rings
and barbequed angel wings.
hey!
i just saw a play!
it goes: she think she one,
but that just ‘cos she think she is-
she become just that,
when she is TWO -
she is not twat.
she is Two and she CAN
live like that,
stretched out beauty on a harpsichord,
and I’ve seen her floating in
a star spun nightly glass ceiling,
i have seen her moving on the
sheeted dance floor screaming
like wretched of desire
and tumble blazing afoot in it all…
so why all small?
why small girl who want to be tall?
why tall girl embarrassed to not be
more small?
why big feet too little,
little feet too large?
why ever-present witchcraft
hovering over gold-spun head?
trust yourself girl.
you’ve spluttered up way too much blood
for one
two three lifetime.

it’s never perfect enough?
and it never will be.
not got no ending?
it never will have.
and
that, my girl
is what you big enough to live on
if you thought on it enough…

you are big enough
(but you think yourself
a small tepid whitish thing)

and that never blew you out of
the Carolina water.
that never made you a star.
He said:
EGO DID IT
Ego made it SOAR.

and I don’t want him go alone in Abyssinia.
i miss the nights
and the absinthe
and that gun-shot
through a
hotel wall