she walks in beauty
like a prufrockian night, smoky, hazy, cluttered up.

disturbing rutting dogs and yowling cats,
she walks.

asian cook tucked under her arm, tempura bubbling madly in her brain,
she is sly; she is shy
she walks.

flick, click, inhale and blow. with her jazz singer's voice she sings
a childhood melody under stinking breath. she stops, and flinches.
murder in high heels.

one of her mates against a wall, looking bored
ignoring the bucking male plastered to her body

ta! their eyes signal. they'll have bangers and mash
(she sniggers at that) for a late nght supper.

she walks and whispers as she goes on
fuckin, fuckin, fuck you bloody mindfucked byron

she ain't gonna walk in beauty like HIS night no more.

'you got a nice arse, kid'

she slaps his hand from her butt and snaps
'i ain't for hire you son of a bitch'