Word on the Street

Word on the Street

The radio played a three minute love song,
so I thought of you for three minutes
and then you were gone. Result! I danced
in the mega mega refrigerator light
to sing-along songs
that harmonize pop chords
with all the dirty words as seen
on dirty walls. Outside the mortuary
it said you were dead easy, and in front
of the supermarket you were cheap and sleazy.
On the condom factory building
you were given billboard style star treatment
headlining in giant red letters; a newsflash:
you’ve been crowned queen slag,
everyone’s favourite come
and get it greasy whore shag,
a take it up the arse cock sucking spunk bag,
it’s been written on the back of bog doors
these odes to the infamy of your yo-yo drawers.
Yet this was nothing to do with poetry
this was poverty from the metropolis of me,
the Gotham City of my ghetto state
of mind; confined, can’t fly ‘cos I’ve no cape,
and I can’t stop the earth from turning
or turn back time, ‘cos I’ve no clean underpants.
But I have survived your Kryptonite comedown
and I feel faster than a speeding bullet fine
having cleansed my brushes in turpentine.