Concubine on the Ginza Line

so I tighten hands with my castaway and say

you failed to impress in your folded peacock dress

and she smiles like a girl from a song and says

you're still a wastrel and I curse your secret name

 

we've had breakfast weekends and chaperones

lips like fermentation and the logic of sex

and now, and now, we're chased by the moon

to drinks at the mausoleum

 

clustered by frustrated mothers & shoed spouses

the train is a feeling focused on flames

we're stuck in the flue with oil from the catacombs

lying in grey and left to morn

 

she's a fullgrown slip of the lip and she fulls me filled

with the wonder of parapets and the joy of snug and shove

the concertina collapses, the saviour bends the lens,

and I make sure her slip catches in the automatic door

 

it's time, my paperdoll,

for drinks at the mausoleum.