Wednesday, 13 April 2011


I’m a looker, I’m fit
I’m a girl with class
don’t you really long
to see me strip to my lycra thong
as I wriggle to the tune of the raunchy song
to a sea of faces in the shadowy throng
of men from the firms in the office blocks
and the pc worlds;
I’m your thing in dreams,
the pliable barbie of your private scenes,
I’m a page 3 pic
that you flip to quick -
an icon from a world where the soft porn girl
is a look-real-pearl that appeases the needs
of the office boys and the men in tweeds.
I dance on the laps
of a whole dirty dozen of leering chaps,
reflected in the gaze of the one who pays
for a scent of my skin and the hoped for fling
of a one-night stand –
reduced to a grope from a furtive hand.

As a pale light dawns on a tired morn
and she finds her way from the reek and haze
of the midnight bar
and the hungry gaze of so many men -
another lean girl from a dirty world
whose stock in trade is youth and beauty that will never last
and she’s teased by the hopes of her youth that passed
too quickly, in all those misspent hours
window shopping in the tawdry malls,
and the shabby halls of imagined fame,
deep in the thrall of glamour from the world
whose profit is the gain of the merchant men
who dismiss her kind as legitimised sin,
whose lust for thrill and salacious whim
have turned women like her to a sexual thing -
a toy for the joy of the boys in the bars
and she wears the scars of her secret shame
as a sexy smile, but her eyes betray
the desperation of the game
that’s changed her name from a lady to a tart
and she can’t get smart or even have the luck
to cut loose now
before the raucous shouts of the jeering louts
claim another fraction of her yearning soul
and she sinks ever deeper in the yawning hole.

But she knows she’s free and enjoying her right
to make her choice and in the sight of the world
she serves, they want her to believe that liberty
is a freedom of trade, and they’re free to enslave
to exploit and use women like her
in the mags and the rags and the sleazy shows
and the grotty little bars where no-one knows
her privacy, her pain or her goddamned name
as long as she smiles and pouts
and flaunts to the louts that hurl her cash,
but secretly condemn her as a piece of trash.


  1. Terrific, very well thought out and put to paper

  2. Much appreciated Poetryman, thank you. Not all my poetry is about the 'beautiful'; it's also an expression/critique of the darker aspects of life!

  3. It's so good hearing all these again. This is so well timed and there is no hint of Mr Cheesy Rhyme!

  4. Mr Cheesey Rhyme - the poet's curse (think he might get in on the act with most of us at some time or another)!