For Want Of John's Head|
but you can leave your hat on
You bought me a hat made of strawberries.
I wound scarves around it,
danced Salome's dance,
the seventh veil drop grazing the tip of your want.
I won't dwell on it..
That lamentation solicits memories too painful
and pain is a commodity
I've bought excess stock in lately.
Saturated in sex, you saw it in a melon,
an oar stroke, the bat of an eyelash.
Together, we fired a conflagration,
flames fanned by Tom Waits, Rod Stewart,
Especially that one about the hat.
I married a man who hates sex
(it turned out)
always rows alone
and never has asked me, ever,
to leave my hat on.
Photo from Archives
Pris in commune: late seventies
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