He met Ms. Pussy in a Georgetown bar.
She was drinking doubles, Remy Martin,
through lips painted shocking-scarlet,
which the girls called cocksuckingred.
Her speech was a stew of London,
New York, Paris, Valley Girl and
She fed him chili with her spoon.
Bowie sang: Let’s Dance, and she did.
Her hair swept the floor like a broom,
and her ass was as high as a sprinter’s,
squeezed into the gold lamé of life.
He bought a room. For an hour
she was his wife. It trembled
like a flower. Time cannot
erase the sweet moan she made
while she sat upon his face.
He woke alone to find
she’d cleaned him out: cash,
cards, car keys, and coke.
His car turned up a week later,
beside a cold hill
outside Brunswick, Georgia.