‘A hungry gerbil up your hairy arse!’ I muster. He snaps,

‘Oh do grow up, Lara. Welcome to the real world.’

FURY rode me. A wild buckjumper.

I scalped myself, sacked Josh, speared my nose,

my little Afro ears coiled a C of silver earrings,

I barricaded myself into an army surplus trenchcoat

and fronted a permanent Desperate Dan scowl.

Nuggets of disease erupted on my surface, squidgy

pus-filled hillocks splattered my bathroom mirror.

I denounced my patriarchal father, deconstructed

my childhood, regurgitated appropriated ideas

like closing time vomit. I flirted with Sensi, swooped

on trendy markets for cowries, batiks and sculpture,

I was a walking irradiated automated diatribe, saw

the rapist in every homme, worms in every phallus,

the bigot in all whites, the victim in every black

woman. London was my war zone. I sautéed

my speech with expletives, detonated explosives

under the custard arses of those who dared detour

from my arty political dictates. I divorced my honky

mother, rubbished the globe for its self-destruct sins

and then flung open the Hammer House gates

of my Rocky Horror Hades

and tossed the key.

ABLAZE with the sharp and the syrup, yeh.

I sozzle whisky mixed with Drambuie, neat, just

a tot, a pint, two litres, ta, topped up, topped up;

on brassic days Mr Gordon’s Dry Gin, on the rocks,

rocky, slippery, hickory, six bottles Bells

under the sofa, in the sink, in the bin, under the stairs,

a little drop ’ere, a little drop there, droppy droppy

everywhere, now, ready to paint a masterpiece, oops,

mistress-piece, yeh, I mean ten gallons whisky on a drip,

drop, hit the high spot, tick tock, 12 o’clock, havin’ a ball,

ready, steady, do a splashy-sploshy ‘ere, a splish-splash

whoopshy, ah, the bluesy woes of a sufferin’ artist.

Why did you trip me up, Me Easel? Come here now.

Groove on down with Leonard Cohen, hit the floor

with Simone, Bach, a little light Gregorian chanting,

stumble to the loo, prop up, eyes open, keep ‘em open,

or the bath’ll spin ’n’ spin, I feel like, don’t wanna feel,

wanna chuck up, eyes shut, in bed, room whirls, upside

down, downside up, wideways in, I weep, I weep, I weep,

I am an old wound, I weep, that has not healed,

shpin

shpin               and out.

shpin

I NIGHTMARE, damply scream into silence…

run backwards into childhood, down Eglinton Road,

his Pinocchio belt pursues, lassoes me; leather belted,

I am legless, my mother in the kitchen is immersed

in the swamp of depression, I skid on her tears –

all the way into the Eighties, Sainsburys, Stepford Wives

checkout, I find a bulging co-star, is he a computer

or just a print out? I sleazily X-ray his Uncle Tom, ding,

dong, That’ll be six pounds and 69 pence, madam.

I take him home, wardrobe him in leather jock strap,

gun holder, bikers’ boots, baby oil his jet buns, play

Black Barbarella to his Kola the Cunt Controller,