Meanwhile at the bar a drunkard muses

She offered me her handbag as a history,
each drink lodged her looser.
She threw out tears, teabags, tissues,
mistletoe, a migrane, dismorphic disorders,
photos of 3 sons and her lipstick.

All compartments clean she hollared
'I'm Jilly, I'm Jilly, and I'm different!
They might get frisky soon
and I've still got my tongue against my teeth,
so quickly
pass me some sympathy
I'm just like Eddie Izzard me.'

'You're beautiful, you're beautiful'
and we almost left her singing
till her hip shook up the bar staff
and the whisky fumes, sturdy as stocks,
told her to leave.

Her breasts flung flat from function,
her heart bitch tired from singing,
let loose old condoms, split cigarettes,
strings of saliva
and that old story where
a Meg Ryan lookalike steals her husband
munches on her heart
and leaves the bar mulling,

mmmmm, mucky.