by Lynn Crosbie
Hef brings me flowers
tiger lilies, ochre veined
downcast, sleek black cups
small shadows, are the
puckers in his pyjamas
where his skin caves in
tired profligate, I
sigh and pour the oil along
your circular sheets
thinking of all the
times, or women on this bed
glossy old bunnies
I imagine their
breasts, plate of fried eggs, a row
of tonsured monks’ heads
his tongue slithers, gaunt
voluptuary, ugly
old man, my eyes close
when I roll his name
Ner. along my tongue, like the
line of cold test tubes
thin bottled semen,
he wants to plant it, deeply
in my flat belly
Hugh junior, and, or
Carietta, a child is
packed in dry blue ice
in silk pyjamas
they have an emperor’s crest
it is dark in there
but it’s cold as
the green jacuzzi, bubbles
are clouds on its face
I will crush the glass
with the fingers in his back
and pile on my rings
and all the fur coats
and move down the circular
stairs, bloated with gold
the flowers are a
venus-flytrap, with red curls
flames and noxious breath
his betrayal gives
me granite fists, girls scatter
movie stars crumple
as I run away,
from the gaudy prison cell,
of tinsel and skin
I’ll sue him and write
and build a home, in the
desert, on the sun
a sequined empress,
a mirage—in loungewear and
harlequin glasses.
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