just an early pome what I wrote
She stood at the back of every gig
Clapping whooping, loved my shtick.
It seemed she couldn’t get enough
Of this cockney bit of rough.
Phoebe was a cut-glass talker
I put her in a piece called
“Posh Bird Stalker” –
She said that was a ‘liberty’,
“You deserve a spanking.”
No problemo. Fine by me.
We were lovers – but perfunctory.
I was in and out of her,
And her Hackney pad, in a jiffy,
In case her husband calling in
Caught us in flagrante.
She was a cultural lightweight;
Ambition, money and pretension
But little ability, less insight and
I was making ripples in the ‘nouvelle vague’
Up and coming, having it large
Phoebe needed an entrée into the scene,
A quick way in to mingle with the ‘way out’
She used me, I used her,
A healthy coupling of convenience.
At a black tie Barbican book launch – not mine,
I skulked in the kitchen, admiring the cooker hob –
A Neff with integrated controls, ‘Nice job’
Swigging gin, humming, “Save the last dance for me,”
Planning a ‘quickie’ in the back of her Audi.
Meanwhile, Phoebe hogged the punchbowl
Surrounded by arseholes.
The assembled celebrity
Cultural big knoberati
Fawned all over her,
Lighting her cigarillos,
Indulging her jejune pensées
All craning their necks for an eyeful
Courtesy of a no-bra sidie.
The party petered out:
I was left alone and broke.
With hints of cigarillo smoke behind – and a note.
“Bye Dahl. I’ve left with Featherstonehaugh
(she pronounced it Fanshawe)
We’re flying down from Hambleden, Hampshire
To cruise in his yacht from Malaga to Ayia Napa.
You and me are history.
We had no chemistry.
I never liked your poetry
Fanshawe says it’s shit anyway.
Ps. Fannie sends regards to ‘the excremental obscenity’.”
© coolhermit 2020