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.


Ifthere'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,

wellbetter 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



[1] First published in Ambit