You, all legs-up-to-here and posh-as-you-like sprawled on that revolting old foam chair bed; itching. You looked at the scars on my face - still red, not faded as they are now - and talked through me... no shag for me then.
You said your man wanted me to get him some acid - I had none of that... and he was off to Chile - Lord of the Mansion, old money with new on top, one of Thatcher's children - dealing guns for Britain to Pinochet to kill poets no doubt; not that your man was bothered with that, the market would sort out the morality of the situation. Though I quite wished I'd had some acid - to send him on his way with a very bad trip.
Damp night, cold room, not enough entertainment to cover the smell of must and the grey dripping of uncomfortable time that seeped through the ceiling... and I wondered just how far your legs did go up above the bottom of your top - there must be, I wondered as I drifted in and out of sleep, some eventual point of convergence, physics (not to mention biology) surely demanded it.
A song to praise the death of many a poet - and the friend of Margaret, daughter of a grocer.
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