he unzips my PVC mini, down the back, black fishnet

stocks, crotch-less satin knicks, red-light thigh-highs, patent,

I pant, trade entrance only, cat o’nine tails, On yer knees,

Sweet Jesus! I play second fiddle to his diddle-daddle.

Juice it, Bitch. More. Faster. Faster. You – must – obey.

I won’t. I won’t. Swoosh. Schwop. Shlick, Tingle

Spread it, take it like a… I run screaming on moors,

scarecrowed by bibles in batted capes, coarse

cloth and clog villagers, I am stoned into rivers…a car

alarm goes off, I awake, relieved, moist, dehydrated.

Say ten Hail Marys, my child. Yes, Father.

‘YOU’RE AN UNDRESSED genius, Lara.’ Trish unwraps

my magnum opus on the floor of our latest makeshift

gallery, another empty shop in Marylebone High Street.

I laugh, proud of my painting, a life-sized bottle, my naked

self going glug glug to the bottom. ‘It’s called Booze,’ I say.

‘Eat yer art out Jean Michel-Basket. This is London-stylee.

My influences are Hackney, Afro-beat and Blue Peter.’

I stand back, watch Trish contrast the freshly-white walls.

‘Never was the Nefertiti from Neasden so beautiful,’

I declare grandiloquently. ‘’Tis indeed true,’ she grins,

‘Many have commented on my timeless, regal beauty.’

She spins the floor like a Whirling Dervish, ululating.

‘I’m going away,’ I call out. / ‘Yeh, yeh, another fancy.’

‘No, for real this time. I’m hitting the road, Jack, Trish.

I’ve had it. Ain’t no Saatchi gonna doubloon my satchel.

I’ve hoarded some coppers in my piggy. It’ll last a while.’

Trish stopped, stared me out. ‘It’s just escapism, Lara.

We’re best friends. Don’t bugger off now, you old cow.’

‘I s’pose I am escaping. I’ll soon know if it’s from myself.

Come with me, live a little, leave this cage. Anyway,

when this show comes down, it’s toodle-oo from me.

I’m going to trundle my way across Europe.’

IT’S PISSING DOWN out the jeep, out the door, pissoir,

perched for a pee, cloth over knees, mobile loo,

out of view, ’cept for spyin’ lorries who honk

and perv and rev on down the slick autobahn – wet wipes,

towels, maps, Stanley knife, icebox, cassettes, the long

and winding, yellow brick, to follow, wherever I lay my

home, hat, the road, we spiral around, gorge on satay chips,

salami, Belgian chocs, sauerkraut, Austrian beer, vin,

brie slabs in French sticks, olives, artichokes, a million

pastas, dip doughnuts in cups of hot, thick chocolate,

we brawl, sulk, make up, Trish and I, hold our breaths

as borders fly into blurs, our old Volkswagen Beetle

pipped by sleek Mercs, and on down Spain’s dry African

spine, we overheat, slow down, rest, renew, stagger

farting up the Costas, ex-pat colonies, retired colonels,

fish ’n’ chips, Brit bars, we flee, exhilarate, compass the sun,

tunnel the mountainous Med, zipped nights on sand,

Brindisi, Patras, Piraeus, Heraklion, Rhodes, Marmaris,

we edge, we ease, we secure ourselves onto ferries,