BALLADE OF HALIMA ZURU*
The worst of itís all this your Go
back to the village, leave the bars.
It doesn't matter now what slow
black cotton slithers on your arse:
nobody wants a face with scars
and one eye gone, except the pissed
and old, the ones who cum with farts.
Well,† better them than not exist.
If† there's a soul itís what you know
about me, nothing else,† my glass
of Star,† my rocking high heeled toe
stuck out. Itís just the smoke you blow
over the tables in the bars.
And here weíre all the same, my sisters,
with our public private parts.
And better so than not exist.
Itís finished now, however low
the lights, however bright the braís
and pantsí glad ultra violet glow.
If Iíve got one profile no scars
have knotted up (praise be Allahís)
and one eye that my madman missed
and I can still drink in our bars,
well† better that than not exist.
Whatever silhouette you show
the headlamps, in the end itís scars
or pox or AIDS that comes. You know.
And there's an end to all the ahs
and oohs and oh my Gods and last
bum plunging cries.† Your cheekís a twist
of string, youíre bone instead of arse.
Yet better that than not exist.
If I had money I could go
and get an eye made out of glass
to stare at men until the flow
of blood into their floppy parts
had emptied out their brains and hearts
into my lap or pumping fist.
But in the line for cash Iím last.
Still,† better that than not exist.
Oh my dear sisters, don't you know
the world itself slips down a glass
and we are drinking it? And so
a toast to this, to us,† our farce,
whatever role in it we're cast!
To everything that can't resist!
To every headless wobbling arse!
To Better that than not exist.
first published in Ambit
 First published in Ambit