He’s got that T & R look,
street stuff to the core.
An edgy, hard, spring,
a faster remedy
than your bouncercizer.
Even the air respects this
backstreet royalty, keeps his
Crazy Horse hair and
tiny pore, proud brown
face fresh during
night rounds.

His number you got,
burning a hole,
smouldering in your smug
above-it-all wallet
of pretensions. Twitchy fingers
won’t dig it out though. He could
cost some coin and
like you, he prefers
to shag the familiar.

He’s a high risk girlfriend.
And as if you don’t know
what risk, here’s a list.
To re-offend,
to give you trich, syph,
hep, the virus.
To smack you around,
to break your heart,
to give you an intense ride
back to your reckless self who
can fall in love and laugh at
death.

Irresistible.
Just right for someone
whose own whistling
in her nose
scares her at night.