By Sophie Bowles
Because I
only have friends who
do madnesses unto themselves and never go out on
Saturday night,
only out to the offy, bed & back to hide behind the pillow with the strops and
socks while everyone else laughs and dances away, or robbing the bookies,
I watch
the scenes alone,laughter, and smoke and stilettos
looking for meaning in men and picking my mind
off the floor with the fag ends, striking a match in a strangers eyes but the lights
have died in all of them, I need that one with the black clouds, not mr happy with his hair preened back roaring his head off, the one who could
hold the leash back and teach me.
I still look for his face in the large crowds
Looking for love in the next one.
I see him dancing away,
come out for a fag could you handle me and everything I have done,
deal with my father, waiting at the door with the silent questions…could you be that
who’d rise up to him and take me out of myself, don’t just pacify, but grab my waist
and smash the life out of the man who ever tried,
I’m spinning… How quickly the night wants to rain down
on my head, in a trail and the girl with the square head and bloodshot eyes puking it out,
looks at me dead,
mind your own, never taking her eyes off the strangers who eye up the orange mess on the streets
I need that arm around my waist of the girl with big tits and glittering lips, tossing at the traffic lights,
oblivious to banging her head on the wall begging for change in the steamed up window,
and crying it out in the city after dark.
I can grip it if I wanted to,
Be that woman who the music and lights long for
Who laughs over glasses and conversation and men in shirts showing lust and affection
And up is the cloud of the future, me, great beautiful bum one day in silver heels, folded into the city’s
dazzling arms by the men pouring shots at the bar, away fom the chips and the
longing for change, I’d be that one who London loves, not spinning.
Loved by London after dark.
Wells Street Journal 