Girl With One Track Mind (Sexhunters)
I Fell in Love on the Northern Line
Saturday Night at the J H Tavern
The Fight
An insult too many
after months of abuse,
Lash I out at last,
enough's enough!
though what's the use?
my flatmate buckles,
his spectacles off fly,
tawdry trickle of blood
taking the edge off his high
from the usual stimulants
and Kelsey's booze
as my shin's skinned,
plighted its own
deep jagged scar,
and pandemonium
erupts around this
my own private ruck.
Methinks thirty people are suddenly
betwixt me and my ex-pal
I'm moving backward
propelled somehow
by countless others,
whence they came with such alacrity?
a gentleman of security
says surprisingly gently
'Will you leave the premises please'
This is not a question,
but equally politely I say
'Of course. Thankyou.'
and hobble off
into this futile November night,
my leg bleeding like billio
fresh from the melee,
leaving Chaos in my wake,
thinking (naively):
'my flatmate won't be back
in a hurry'
Wrong! Wrong! Wrong!
For Christ's sake:
half an hour on
he's outside the flat
begging to come in,
'I'll die,' he implores,
'without my insulin.'
His pleas I cannot ignore,
'No violence,' I say
and he avows,
a lowly trick!
for once in,
It's Ding, Ding, Round Two:
he bypasses his syringes
to beat me to a pulp
attacking from the air
as I recline on the sofa
him frothing at the mouth
like a rabid cur,
I feel:
his Sunday roast-hot breath,
his uncontrollable shaking,
his unconscionable rage,
his knuckly fists
mashing my face
as he demands 'cash!',
and screams:
'I hate you!' 'I hate you!'
A blow cracks my cheek,
another lacerates
my right ear
in his self-righteous
frenzy of ire,
for a moment
I think, 'I am
going to die today!'
There's nowt
I can say,
Too late it strikes me:
fighting's not my forte.
In the beauty of the chill-moist morning
my alarm clock is
the oscillating pain
of a smashed cheek
and my raked leg
as I besuit and boot
for work
by eight am
as per usual.
The flat is trashed,
ugly broken glass
and uglier football badges
and cards of Premiership players
sprawl everywhere,
last week's discarded
grub
is spread manuresque
on the rug
A hug I need.
In the looking glass
my face is
like James Bond's
after a bad day
at the office,
speckled with blood,
mine and his,
my right ear still bleeding
my leg too
with a 13-inch serrated wound
like a rouge snake
charmed out of the hollow
of my clenched foot.
My eye catches the farewell card
I'd bought my flatmate
and left on the
mantlepiece
and the bottle of
red wine,
and I dwell on
thirteen months of hell and -
oh brother -
a claret-plashed
leaving do
like no other.