BITCHES

for MJ


Bitches don't know what Crystal Carrington brings,

throwing fierce, diamond sharp nails and rings

packed with sapphire and ruby. Don't know Alexis

swings slaps like Liz Taylor drops affadavits

in cuckolded laps, demanding divorce on the grounds

of fabulousness. Bette Davis wore smiles and gowns
as she kicked clumps of hair from Joan Crawford's
crown. Bitch is a trick of the voice. It is heard
in the glittering lilts of drag queens and fags
that spit feather boas and pearls. We aint WAGs.
We aint fascinated by Gucci bags or footballers' packs.
We love Joan Rivers dissing Ellen Degeneres' slacks.
We were whelped in the forties from Judy's cunt
and, since, Liza and I have been feasting on runts.

WE ARE THE CURE

for JD


There will be no marriage
in the future, only men and women
meeting by the Autobahn
to exchange syringes of spunk
for zlotys. Everywhere will be a fag bar
or dyke dive and work will be done
by straights in chains
under neon striplights.
These are the days of future past
where politicians 
who voted for section 28 
swing from lamposts and effegies
of the previous Tory government are burnt
beneath fireworks.


When the mad men with hare-eyes
and korans and bibles 
came burning crosses with placards
that promised a cure,
the queens dripped with pearls and diamonds.


We were there in 1999 at the Soho bombing.
We were there at the Stonewall Inn.
We were there at the murder of Alan Turing.
There will be no apologies.