We’re the very best at being bad

We’re the very best at being bad

We prop our breasts up with metal ridges,
lie like dogs with our chins hanging off cliff edges

tell people how they are breathing in
everyone else’s skin.

We send postcards to our friends to say
that we bet they will fail to remember

last December when we pressed ginger dough
out of snatch-shaped cookie cutters.

They made perfect tree decorations.
The bus we passed at Exetor station

waiting in the lay-by,
with that wanker slumped on the backseat unbuttoning his fly.