Careful, love, I'm thinking of Morrissey

I am camped out in your sexy heart
she said. I lie in the grey sofa of your brain,
pouring through magazines about you.
I have mistaken your buttocks
' more than once ' for porcelain.

She spoke with the insincerity
of Mumbles pier. He had linseed
in his teeth, cranberry juice
on his breath, grains of sand
in his hair tide. She lied to him

as a favour.
She did not pick
at her nail varnish,
gurn on her hair,
think much of Morrissey.

You don't know me, he said.
My heart, ugly as a turnpike.
My offal brain. My buttocks
are nothing but the bouncers
on the door at a bodily function.

She waited for him to speak
(she would have settled for anything:
your smile makes me jangle
like a janitor's keys)
but that was not him.

He did not comment on the slat of air
between her thighs,
her sloping shoulders
her clean, hollow ears.

He hummed
some girls are bigger than others
but only felt sadder
when she sang along.