posh bird stalker

posh bird stalker

 

Phoebe stood in the wings of every gig

clapping, whooping, loved my shtick

seemed she could not get enough

of this cockney ‘bit of rough’

 

Phoebe was a cut-glass talker

I wrote a poem about her

titled, Posh Bird Stalker

she said,'that was a liberty',

I deserved 'six of the best' 

 

‘promises promises - fine by me’

 

we were lovers – but perfunctory

in bed, and out, in a jiffy,

in case a  former fellah,

a rugby player,

caught us in flagrante

 

she was a cultural lightweight

full of pretentious ambition

short on talent and with 

limited imagination

 

I was having it large in the ‘nouvelle vague’

a Guardian feature called me ‘up and coming’

Phoebe needed an entrée so latched on to me

a quick way in to mingle with the ‘way out’

 

at a black tie Barbican book launch

I skulked in the cuisine, admiring the hob –

a Neff with ‘integrated controls’, (a real nice job)

necking 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 celebrity cultural big-knoberati

fawned all over her, lighting her cigarillos,

indulging her jejune pensées

and craning their necks for an eyeful

courtesy of a no-bra sidie

 

the party petered out –

found myself alone and broke

with hints of cigarillo smoke behind –

and a note,

 

"Bye Darl, I’m driving down to Hampshire

with Featherstonehaugh (pronounced Fanshawe)

you and me are history - no chemistry.

I never liked your poetry- Fanshawe says it’s shit anyway

affectionately, Phoebe

ps. regards from Fannie".