He is passionate about fashion, it
is more than a career.
Unlike a cupboard he has no fear
of skeletons, in fact he is drawn to them,
loves the bones of them.
The rattle he thrills to on the catwalk
is not made by the clicking of heels.
His girls look like his boys.
Pale and cadaverous, androgynous,
thin as whipping posts.
That he has made a fortune out of
displaying in public his erotic fantasies
never ceases to please and amaze him.
After the show the gifts he bestows
are famously expensive. For it pays him.
Back home, he might open the cupboard
and reveal to a few of his favourite boys
his latest collection. Children’s books,
torn and scorched, broken dolls and toys
found at the scene of airplane disasters.
At first they giggle, getting it wrong.
Then, sensing his mood, sigh and shed
a tear at the waste and sadness of it all.
After consoling them, he watches as they
glide down the marble staircase. Click, click, click.