I loved your dainty biro-covered fists
The gentle tread of DM boots, no socks
No underwear, a subtle Mohican crest
Your re-runs of PIL’s appearance on the box
I lusted for a touch of your self-styled tattooed thigh
Curled childlike round mine, your builders vice
You arrived at
Over vomit in my sink, no sacrifice
Too base to prove, sans words, my love for you
I would wreck trains, split lips, and even dye
My pubic hair with bleach and ‘Opal Blue’
The bath, next day, stained like a bowl of sky
I hated your fear of phones and blood-red jeep
Parked in other roads, near Sloppy Joe’s
Where Anna worked with long-legged ease and chips
At your feigned indifference, or so I suppose
Your tranquil nature like relentless Mardi Gras
In Notting Hill at opening time near Al’s
The dealer you thought I hadn’t even sussed
After toilet duets left you like bosom pals
It’s high time rose-tinted memories expire
Love isn’t spreading honey on my bruises
Nor sharing your brothers whisky or dancing in vaults
The Catacombs blacker than a disc of Siouxsie’s
Nor absconding to fuck in a deserted house on floorboards
Although after Tequila and salt the feeling was fine
But I’ve thrown out the joss sticks, black candles and Gothic accoutrements
(The sonnet is not a form that is played with much anymore, requiring as it does the discipline of iambic pentameter - here loosely applied.)
