The Damned
BY RODDY LUMSDEN
Kitten curious, or roaring down drinks
in Soho sumps, small hours tour buses,
satellite station green rooms, or conked
out in the bathtubs of motorway hotels,
there you were, with muck-about kisses,
sharking for the snappers, before hell
opened up for you and weeping sores
of after fame appeared, the haphazardry
and dwindling after three limelit years,
recognized with catcalls, wads of spit,
a nightclub fist, the scant camaraderie
melts fast, like your flat on Air Street,
the Lhasa Apso pups, the wraps and lines
of chang, the poster pull-outs, fake tan
smiles. It’s paunch and palimony time
on Lucifer’s leash. But for a madcap few
who cling, thin soup, one pillow Britain
is simmering with hatred, just for you.
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