Monday, 19 March 2012

Candle Staircase

I'm all dressed up and you got me here. Semi-precious in Aubrey's salon. Girl in drag as a boy in drag out on the stone floor. In this three minute song I'd die for you before we're hooked on someone new. I'm not the letter writer tonight. I never once had words for you my courteous Uncle SS, my night porter, who observes as I audition for war.

In the changing room a vanity case opens and eels who came by bus from the East End uncoil and buckle themselves onto a man who piloted Concorde two days ago. Now he's correct to climb the candle staircase with his sergeant major. A human step, spine on broken glass and a thank-you before opening Pandora's door. At ten p.m. I find my place in the abstract jigsaw puzzle suspended between factory walls slick with breath.

The monarchy are here, tail coated Sebastian and his knights. A master enquired if I was for sale. He who she said her lover told her had killed someone once. He who I have heard wires weekend-away secretaries for electrical yelps in his dungeon. No, she's not for sale, someone answers for me.

One eyebrow arched, the Equestrian Lady offers me a drink of Jesus' blood, our lipstick smudges kiss on the rim of the glass. A lizard's ruff aroused, tattoos come to life in the steel ring swing. My seahorse tails untwine, I'm flamed by a cruising dragon, then splashed by Japanese waves. Flicked by the tiger's tail I dance for voyeuristic corners, and shy from the lion tamer's whip. Celestial savage, antiseptic slut. Every forgotten wound in bloom and laughing. Naked alabaster girls dance seven veils in shawls of hair. I said I'd never cut my hair, as I tear away my day time. Rubber flesh armour, permission on elastic, matt black gripper tube, sweat slow running fingers, glossing glue bonded, where all I can feel is harnessed tension. Autoerotic garment deconstructed, undress her a mystery. Sweat races on my resurfaced skin. Speed cop Desmond. Lotus buds enrobed in dark chocolate.

Minty Leigh turned a clockwork eye and flared leg, posing me a tinsel wink. I couldn't hear his deaths door creaking, the music was loud.

We were majestic fake diamonds and mink. Filigree emotional. High opinion self harm. Royal purple prose one a.m.

I'm projected on the wall, he said you look so tall in pictures. We could meet at The Blue Angel, and talk of Theda and Chainsaw, before joining the queue in a side street cobbled with London rain. Watch me Lucien Silver, he works for a bank and I am a librarian, but what it is about Lucien Silver is he doesn't like to fuck. Watch me two a.m. dancers' reward, blind faces held by an amputated limb, eyes extracted and laced into a mandala.

In military shirts and short socks two Susans hunt for Davids to take home to see Barbie in bondage. Pour the tea and send them dry to their rooms.

I imagine the epitaph on my gravestone: Lisa lived for one night. Tomorrow morning I'll wake up with the smell of everyone I've danced with, envelope them safely away before breakfast. I'll write you a letter Lucien Silver. A.m. descending. Watch me as you'd photograph me, a ghost at the coat check. Candles turned to house lights.


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