Thursday, 30 September 2010

Lenchen Elf: The Last Bawdy Suet

The distance between here and there
runs length of bar, optics at half measure.

Squint, accordingly, sharp cut of your hair
asymmetric to hide the eye. Fag pinchclenched

behind your back, hot gaze toasts rare steaks,
blueblooded skirt and flank, sparsely seasoned,

seared by your stare as they flex over tables,
make the break. You steer your interest to rump.

Meanwhile, scrape up carbonised leavings
griddled and scorched, burger bun shaped,

all hands to the beer pump,
dreaming of droit de seigneur.

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