Madame Crustace  

He’s netted a hungry one there, in Le Ruban
Bleu at table ten in crotch-tight denim with
four inch heels and shaped yellow hair scoffing
the ocean floor.

Armed with weapons for disembowelling and
dilatation et curetage, size zero soon makes
a mountain not out of a molehill but of fine
bone, shell and studded claws torn from their
moorings, broken open in a war to be
won.

A steel pin to the unprotected abdomen
picks out the very last piece of white meat
and when a strand drops to the table there’s
no defeat but the further crack of gunfire
before she teeters to the front line for more.
Not once or twice or three times, but four.

In room eighteen, they’ll fuck till sleep,
him on his back, dreaming of wide-
hipped women while she, pink as a
prawn, curls up and snores, smelling of
the deep.

 

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