Carmen Monoxide

 

the tips of her hair were electric-red

fading through blonde to dusty mouse

 

Carmen Monoxide, as she was called

when, wearing distressed fishnet tights,

slit leather skirts (no underwear)

she sang in the Sisters of Rimming

to kids with gorilla-snot Mohicans

stapled ears and nostril chains

who sniffed poppers and sulphate

in smashed-door toilets

and pogoed, punched,

kicked, and flegged at

their swearing mates in the mosh pit

 

wrestled her baby buggy

over broken pavements

heading to the Money Shop

to cash a pay-off cheque

from mum and dad

of the latest bloke

who, like the rest

bruised her thighs,

bit her tits,

fucked her quick

then fucked off quicker

beneath whose kids

and ‘No Frills’ carriers

she was daily crucified

 

a shoulder tap in Money Shop,

‘you’re Carmen from the Rimming Sisters

I had Let’s Fist Again on cassette,

until the cat went and tangled it

was it great shit on the road?

everyone fancying you and that?’

 

‘and that? and that?’

 

Carmen Monoxide

as she was called back then

ran a reel of memories

 

halitosis bad tooth groupies –

either sex – but always sex,

always bad sex, always rough sex,

always knock-down drag-out

loveless grunting sex.

 

‘okay… it was… okay.’

 

Carmen Monoxide, as she used to be

sat on a BrightHouse vinyl sofa

drinking coffee

nibbling beef and mustard crisps

(after a spicy cheesy toasty)

half-watching a cookery 

daytime televison show

 

she had a cushion to sew -

exquisite black brocade overlaid

with a Japanese leaf motif

worked out in gold.

 

she licked a thread

and pierced the needle eye

at the moment Mountbatten,

older brother of Lincoln,

and new-born Kennedy

snivelled into the room

heavy nappy ankle-bound

 

‘come here, sweetie, let mummy sort you out’

 

Carmen Monoxide, as she used to be

when she sang in the Sisters of Rimming

looked fondly at her needlework

and put it away for another day.