On Wine Street today I saw a woman
perhaps she was a darts player’s wife or a bad day for porn
maybe she was an art installation
or the emblem of chips
she emerged from a crowd of potbellied stags
and hens gutter-fucked by curly-cocked pigs
she was squeezed into a toddler’s corset
she was crowned in the gold of Argos
she was tattooed in varicose blue
great Goddess of Egg

A pioneer of female flatulence
a hoarder of all the cellulite in Benidorm
she was flanked by beefed-up boyos on steroids
with body hair waxed down
to their suntan lotion-oiled skin
pouting into the blacked-out windows
of souped-up Subarus.

And when she spoke she sang
in wondrous splayed and arcing syllables
a great wingspan of words
vast and flapping catastrophes of insight
all the grammar of flamingos on glue
something in slug-speak about defecating
in the back of a taxi and tipping the driver forty pence
cackling Happy Fucking Christmas
you dirty paki cunt