by mark bibbins
Life is inevitably disgusting
We couldn’t get near the bathroom
with all the models
holding back their hair
over the bowls.
The chef barely knew how to fling
parsley, so in the end no one mourned
the hors d’oeuvres’ demise.
The champagne was another story.
A great mystery
to me as well you should be,
your legs seemed longer when
you cartwheeled under streetlights.
â€”Straddle me and I’ll give you
all the scandal, all the sugar.
â€”Exactly what might one do
with all the sugar anyway?
Caress may still be the right word,
the streets dark and aflash
with rain sliding through the city
on its way. A third party wants
in, that warmth. You love
the noise stars make when they fall.
In the morning we are knocked around
by the wind of approaching trains.
You play the drawn-on eyebrow,
you play the figure-me-outâ€”
I’d like something too,
to tear at me.