New Money

I apply my ear wax
as lip balm
while my date is in the loo.

The waiter brings me the six
empty oyster shells
I ordered.

I have flu:
soon the shells are brimming wih snot,
quivering like hot air
from a private jet.

My beautiful date returns.
She sniffs
knowingly. In her purse a five pound note
holds traces of my dead skin.

She's only with me for my fortune
but I don't mind,
I'm made of money.

The morning after and she steps
from the bathroom
gleaming like diamonte:

toe-nail exfoliant,
anti-wrinkle cum.

"I love you," she says
with winnets in her teeth.
It sounds true - straight from the heart

or lower: the belly
that loves me like oysters,
is sick with love.
The bin, the laundry basket,
the floor - dowsed in affection

and the stench is worth
a zillion.