Aladdin Sane, Gravesend, homoerotica, memory, Putney, redheaded witch, self-portrait, She Who Cannot Be Named, sonnet, winter
London and a diet of shrimp curry,
Southern Comfort, hashish; I can recall
my poor hip pressed up against your icy
wall. We spooned all “winta.” Your Gravesend drawl
made me giggle. We loved Aladdin Sane.
I won’t list faults. Complaining kinda blows.
Why should I complain about love? Complain
it did not work? As if no beasts, heroes,
singers or thinkers ever once fucked up.
We don’t talk about redheaded witchcraft
or She Who Cannot Be Named. Talk is cheap.
Betrayal poems cheaper. I’m grown up.
You’re dead … so what? Once you told me you laughed
with joy as I lay in your arms, asleep.