by Wills Troubadour
Clubs siphon
out blokes in Ben
Sherman shirts whoíve been
tonguing the mouths
of Stella Artois bottles,
the mouths of sweet girls in suede
boots that soar up to (and skirts
that slink away from) kneecaps.
These girls have fishbowls
full of Smirnoff and Red
Bull for tummies and ceramic faces
striped with war paint. They teeter
curbside as taxicabs hug
the corners close. The blokes
are pissed and pissing in phone booths.
I float
above the high street
in an airy canal
with a fishing pole slung
out the side of my gondola.
I dangle
a gentle hook
knotted to a silver line
and watch the bobber.
I wait
for a girl to untwist
her tongue from a bloke's
and slide it through my hook as
I reel
her up and away
from learning why Stella is known as
wife-beater,
up and away
from the mouth of a piranha
that will cushion her lips
before shredding her whole
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