1
You are his repartee.
His last word on the subject.
After each row
he storms upstairs
and takes you out of
the dressingtable drawer.
He points you
at the bedroom door
and waits for her
to dare one final taunt.
‘Come on up,’ you croon.
‘Come on up.’
2
She brazens it out.
Denies. Tries
to cover up
in a negligee of lies.
You, the lead hyphen
in between.
Infiltrator.
He loves her still
but she gone done him wrong.
You burst into song.
In a flash, all is forgiven.
3
Went through a war together
never left his side.
Back home, though illicit,
still his pride.
4 a.m. in the den now.
The note written. Suicide.
You don’t care who
you kill do you?
With whom you fellate
Into whose mouth
you hurl abuse,
whose brains you gurgitate.
4
After the outlaw
has bitten the dust
(Never again to rise)
The sheriff
takes you for a spin
round his finger
then blows the smoke
from your eyes.
5
You rarely get the blame.
Always the man
behind the hand
that holds you
Always the finger
in front of the trigger
you squeeze.
You rarely get the blame.
Always the fool
who thinks that you’re
the answer
Always the tool
who does just as
you please.
6
oiled
and snug
in a
moist
holster
six
deadly pearls
in a
gross
oyster