The Place
slack night descends and flings her sequinned shawl
around the yellow shoulders of the moon
let us go dancing, raddled as we are,
lolloping vixens out to make a kill
I'll take the hour, and you may choose The Place
where yards of leggy girls queue up to spin
like scanty moths in polyester wings
flaunting their artless guile in strobic snares
let us devour their adolescent dreams
to swell a progress start a scene or two
we'll be unlikely puzzles matched to win
a south sea bubble, time-share of desire
let us kick off well-heeled conformity
drink to the love that dare not speak its name
unhook the satin basque of sanity
and quench our thirst in duty free psychosis
Perpetua Pullman
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