“i should sit on a rock off cornwall and comb my hair.
i should wear tiger pants, i should have an affair.
we should meet in another life, we should meet in air,
me and you
once you were beautiful.
in new york, in hollywood, the men said: ‘through?
gee baby, you are rare.’
you acted, acted for the thrill.
the impotent husband slumps out for a coffee.
i try to keep him in,
an old pole for the lightning,
the acid baths, the skyfuls off of you.
he lumps it down the plastic cobbled hill,
flogged trolley. the sparks are blue.
the blue sparks spill,
splitting like quartz into a million bits.”