How come I came,
hardly remembering my name?
Dumped like a bag of bones,
alone among stony outcrops of some
God forsaken bandit land.
Feeling wrecked toes twitching
in a sheep polluted beck,
latch key round my neck,
road map taped to satin vest,
could this be some kind of test?
Then spotted, arrested,
by a mucus fuelled testosterone
walking his Billy Goats Gruff.
“Don’t come trip trapping on my bridge
With your pigeon toed fancy high heels,
We don’t have your sort round here.”
He wrenched open my clasp bag,
Scattering the last of my Chanel No. 5,
ruby wine lipstick, designer eye liner
into some prickly bushes.
It was then I recalled my lush stag night-
wedding today-frightful bride,
image of my mother who had procured
and lured her-the strange tasting
sherbet treble vodka whirl.
I glanced at my Lotte Lempere
Diamenti encrusted watch.
“Oh my god, too late, its fate.”
I leaned and kissed his whiskery jaw,
blew a kiss to all his sheep and goats.
I’d missed the boat.
He was off down the road
As fast as his legs could propel him
Shouting “This guys a nutter.” to no one.
Light headed, elated i walked off,
Singing “Mad About The Boy.”
“This ones for you Noel.”
I had always been a coward
but when my mobile rang
I saw it was mummy, switched it off,
slung it in the ditch, twirled round
like the true bitch I’d always wanted to be,
and walked back into the sunrise.