The Damned

Kitten curious, or roaring down drinks   

in Soho sumps, small hours tour buses,   

satellite station green rooms, or conked   

out in the bathtubs of motorway hotels,   

there you were, with muck-about kisses,   

sharking for the snappers, before hell   

opened up for you and weeping sores   

of after fame appeared, the haphazardry   

and dwindling after three limelit years,   

recognized with catcalls, wads of spit,   

a nightclub fist, the scant camaraderie   

melts fast, like your flat on Air Street,   

the Lhasa Apso pups, the wraps and lines   

of chang, the poster pull-outs, fake tan   

smiles. It’s paunch and palimony time   

on Lucifer’s leash. But for a madcap few   

who cling, thin soup, one pillow Britain   

is simmering with hatred, just for you.