She looked like a lesbian might
look, but wasn’t.

Her arms were hairy, but only
just so; just enough.

Her curves were wide-angled
and I suffered young guilt.

I once presented a poem
to her, and she said:

Ah writing about something you know,
unfortunately no-one will give a shit.

Write about something you don’t know
that’s where it’s at.

And those heart notes; cinnamon, jasmine
They followed her
from room to room
existing there, unyielding

For the base notes; vanilla, musk
Yes, yes and yes
I loved your mother’s perfume
on her neck, on the veranda, just before dusk.

Listen

with your transparent skin and cardigan
buttoned to the last.

Your indignant dominoes,
waiting for a tip.

And that sickly sweet Smell of Death.

Yes Oh yes
I now know the smell of death, it’s similar to a goat cheese topping
on a posh piece of nosh, perhaps brazed halibut on a bed of asparagus.
Yes that is the smell of death my friend, I’m sure.

Or bubbling mutton, still trendy with the dying.
Or mucus stained armchairs.
Or old dog carpets.
Or brill creamed scalps, on greasy liver spot heads.

Listen