you should know this, she said.
men hang from your finger tips.
i imagined little men suffocating
on the nooses of my nonchalance.
you should know this. but i don’t.
i doubt their beer-soaked odes,
their warm, fumbling hands.
so i made him blush- so what?
so he winked at me- so what?
i say, it don’t mean a thing
cos it ain’t got that swing.
now i flirt via tape-recorder;
automatic, organic machine
of lip smacks and lash bats.
you should know this. know what?
countless experiments down the
drain. because when it mattered,
i didn’t have one damn answer.