It’s Laughable That You Kick Women

If her stomach tasted sore after that kicking in
then it’s because he kicked the sweetness out; and
if you ever walk past help again you should be ashamed of yourself 
for not stepping in
however faraway you were,
working on that walk of yours
that walked on past
like a tour, a triple A pass to:
here’s what a rag doll with inner tube lips looks like.
Don’t touch. No photographs.
This body of wool, craft of no breath, is not an art nor science
but the leftover regret of noncompliance,
tableaux of a private conversation rehearsed for public consultation,
though she fluffed her lines and got it right,
he was wrong and decided to strike.
This body of spool, cassette of mess, is not a Turner prize winner,
if anything stop the judging,
she’s pale, growing thinner.

I’ll have been over the bridge when they started resuscitating,
summoning disgusting kisses up to rub against the pane of her face.
No response was received by the first responders on scene,
silence filling in where the night couldn’t reach,
whilst the barman and the other guy braced her waist at the hips
with shaking hands, with nervous feet;
they won’t be walking the same way home again,
that probably won’t sleep
because who could forget that,
her eyelids taught like torn bed sheets
crisp,
and they can still see them from here
in dried, dehydrated sunspot floaters
that’ll make sure they never look at another boyfriend-husband-man again
like that again,
doubt the damaging powers of daddy’s grown up comedienne.
                                                                    tracksuit lad of joke.