I stole Halloween for you*

You were led here by a handful of trouble,
probably cologne smacked and perfumed in the rubble of last year’s fancy dress.

Tonight, your lashes will fall and matte with the dance floor;
tonight, you’ll pickle in the cask of this club,
bolero until your heels rub from dances with ghouls you won’t remember the name of,

and I’ll be watching you, learning lessons as you go,
as you leave, stumble up up and over into look up left:
                                                                                        Maccy D’s is closed.
You are trouble,
and dripping from that mouth of yours is a slur of
well wounded, cherry red after-taste that dresses
argument upon argument in the sour haste of all you've held your tongue for.

Now, it’s out in the open: the one you came for left with another,
and you’ve collapsed on the floor in a burning mess, bonfire at a vineyard,
torn between,
                    1) home and your own bed, or
                    2) be relieved in the arms of some teenage-ninja-stranger in their nest,
more trouble than they're worth, but rest assured you’ve got this.
They’re from the office, your class, that seminar or halls of residence,
they’re the usual suspect covered up under a mask of 
landslide make-up that sweats into swells and runs down
          over stubble,
          over cheeks,
          bores along
the hem line of their new green t-shirt.

I hide behind shaved legs and ill fitting dresses to blend in,
so count yourself lucky ‘cos for some we’ll be going home alone to
kick heels from the edge of beds back onto floors,
we’ll lint roll the fuck out of everything we own, stressed
as we chip excess fake blood from dressing gowns,
sleeves rolled up and it’s four in the morning. 

You pretend to be a character for less than twelve hours
and don’t use the excuse to act like someone else,
as for me I’m the only lady of the night you'll ever know
risking it as a Pretty Daddy,
the masculine Monroe.


*written for La Raza.