Poetry vs so-called poetess, riding on the tailcoats of a manufactured tragedy. Gold-digger of souls. Pffft
Material
for a Prosecution
Although
she had often alluded to rough sex,
toyed
with rape-fantasy and stocking-mask,
I
found myself shocked
and
then overly concerned
before
I finally pissed myself
about
the fluffy handcuffs she kept in a drawer
next
to the The Story of O
and
the massive black dildo,
so
hilariously personal and political,
ironically
playing their parts in her undoing.
We’d
both laughed and squirmed over
his
advances. Called him Big Gay Bill
and,
after several chances, punched
him
firmly on the chin in Rummers’ beer garden;
while
the lecherous grin
holding
his saliva in place
grew
more and more infantile
beneath
the paedophile
eyes,
squinting like a reptile through the cracks.
He
threw his podgy little grey head back
as
though nothing had happened.
And
he was so right.
A
couple of months later
he
passed it around: they were an item
and
they were both writing
the
best sex book
of
their lives.
Thought
I knew about playing with knives
but
not like that. What was to come
would
be cold and more clinical
than
cutting. As soon as it hit the papers
I
easily put together
a
case for the defence:
she
was into sex and violence
from
the start. And liked to write
about
her self-inflicted scars. He didn’t
break
in either, she gave him the key
before
taking advantage of his liberty.
And
though now he’s inside, I guess its
still
pretty funny
that
she’ll be dining out on it for years.
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