The Makings Of Sally Bowles - Poem by Chloe Meakin
not the lady I thought I’d be.
Not half the lady.
I’m ill. Be me. My
brain whines like a tuning fork, my
fat leaks out. I am melting.
Be me. Take me through this.
Tie me to a window so the empty street can see.
Handcuff me. Separate my wrist,
cracking the bones and holding them open.
I said I'm searching.
Show me half the woman I could have been.
I don’t feel well.
Water comes from all my pores. My
holes are crumbling, my
teeth are full of tetanus.
I said be God.
Raise me from cervical cancer death
with your old coffee breath.
Be my sweet cigarette stub,
my sweet sugar almond love.
Be my woman. I’ll be not quite man enough for you.
But I'll do.
Give me a tune, I'll do
the old one-two.
You can run your slack along my back.
Baby we can chew my fat.
And when your crooked throat chokes on my gristle,
I'll be hanging off your grimace like a corpse.
Yes when your teeth slide slices from my stomach,
I'll be a pit of guts and stink.
And when your holes are full of mould,
I'll do. So
blow the desiccated blood through my collapsing veins,
All night your gibbet squeaked against the sheets.
God knows I can’t be you, you’re not so loose.
So let me die. I'll lie dry,
longlegged and white.
The night is brightening,
the bloodless birds roll their heads and beaks.
It begins to taste of bonfire.
The air begins to taste of plastic and
it starts to taste of sweat electric.
I can smell you in the wind, my dog.
All night your exhalations sighed and rode the road to Vegas.
Be me, spread your head on me and bleed.
Your arms are streetlights, your eyes are tungsten.
Your face is only flickers. I am dreaming.
If I was the woman you need me to be
I’d bring the house down.
The old curtains fall a graceful night away.
My fingers hold a numb white space.
I look at you, I look at me.
I turn away my flimsy face.
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