At the long dining table entwined or somehow melted into the candelabras
were the decorative remains of several twisted seven inch singles
the nearest of which I traced the spherized and twirled title
'Angelo Badalamenti' and stuck for an entrée
with my unknown left-sided colleague I muttered something
in supernatural fool mode about Twin Peaks and we struck up a music rapport
and soon it was all Minutemen and Black Flag
her being American of an appropriate vintage
and I was all gushing because she'd seen them both
Fast forward to Paris my friend confessed he held a long burning candle for her
and after consulting various unreliable male opinions he was naturally egged
on to declare but she was horrified and put him in his place
he claimed she was a cold fish stern also
ungracious with a raisin face whatever that means
Rewind and I'm wearing a crash helmet the Beatles
or someone very much like them are on stage and then I'm
claiming to be Jimmy Greaves and dancing with the hottest
girl in the office the one who they all laugh at because
she's so posh uptight and humourless but I choose to believe
shy and mysterious and now James Brown's
playing but he's not on stage I'm gone baby far gone and I perform
this one-off move where I crash to the floor
and bounce straight back up and raisin girl's arched eyebrows
from the edge of the dancefloor says it all
Six foot three Dean who came as a famous serial killer
and carried a twelve inch plastic knife in his inside pocket
was mugged by his taxi driver on the way home
while I rose the next day clean as a werewolf
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