Alfie is one Psycho Ex

in a tutu, ululating,

waving chunks of ostrich-meat

at people and impersonating

Lenin through a megaphone

in a disabled parking zone,

I looked up and caught sight of you,

your freckly arms stirring a stew

of memories of tender sex.

Your head shook, Ginger, for you knew:

Alfie is one psycho ex.

I told your aunt a parakeet

had chased you during roller-skating,

pecking both skates off your feet,

so you’d required resuscitating.

I left, in a dull monotone

each morning, on your answerphone,

the word “blancmange” seventy-two

times, dressed as a cockatoo

outside the High Street multiplex.

By now, Ginge, it was loud and true,

Alfie is one psycho ex.

Perhaps one day you’ll ask to meet

and talk of our love’s terminating.

We’ll stroll beneath the jackdaw’s tweet

and sycamores all germinating,

and you’ll demand that I atone

for all my sins, leave you alone,

forget the fact you tried to glue

my scrotum to a Hasidic Jew,

then ran away. Why should that vex

my brain as though I’m loose a screw,

like Alfie is one psycho ex?

That’s the last time I go through

a love affair with someone who

a therapist fruitlessly checks.

I must be cock-a-doodle-doo,

Alfie is one psycho ex.