February 22nd, 2012


(no subject)


My memory is made of stills and clips
torn out of context. Who's that boy, my date?
When did I have that grey silk dress? I hate
to think how thin I was then. And my hips,

so skinny though I spill out of the top
best buy I ever made. The dress as well.
Years later, in black leather, at the Bell
quite drunk and thirty-something, riding crop

slung from my belt. We all thought that so cool.
Red marks on my white skin. She strokes my back.
She loved my shoulders. Yet what they lack
these memories, is how I thought her cruel

how my feet hurt in heels, all that lost pain.
Thank Christ I'll never be that girl again.

(no subject)

Lindsay Kemp 1973

White face, baggy white clothes, white gloves, a ruff.
We're not his audience. Some sort of fop.
Some lordling, yells for every single drop
of blood and talent. Never quite enough

For his harsh masters. To a minuet
meticulous he takes care not to soil
white gloves - he pulls his guts out, coil by coil,
then with a slightly staggering pirouette,

tears out the last few inches. Wraps guts round
his neck like garlands. Bows, waits for applause
grins anxiously. Pain sweat drips from his pores.
Mouth rictus-wide, a scream without a sound.

He fears his lord will ask for something more.
Has no guts left to spare for an encore.