Halloween fishnets and a flash
of spooks' garters ruffling feathers,
her tickler time travelling neck to neck –
tinted lips all taste of her lips, and hers
of an old fashioned 50’s print, curled at the edges
shrinking from a classic frame, and fading;
punctured and deflating,
in recession these fangs appearing, not suiting
her twin-set, baker’s dozen, welcome home attitude.
This corset black, cape black, crimson red,
white, ruffled-lace, vampire dance.
London’s cobbled together, tap-it-and-see Victoriana
is a glance down at dissolving plastic
from inside the spirals of lovers' dreams,
where there are no costumes except skin;
and when there is no skin,
the kiss,
far above the vanishing guts and scars
of dancing ghouls awaiting inflation,
London’s Burning, and they’ll strike a match.
(2010?)
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