Now I Know #twitterfiction #smutpoetry

Now I know how low I’ll go.
Into the bottomless pit with the 600
and me there in the gore of the battlefield
smug and mud-covered, cackling like
a mad whore at a funeral.

What dignity? I scream,
clawing at my clothes as if
they were jellyfish sent by
Neptune to see if I’d budge.

All I ever wanted was to
sit on a number seven bus
feeling your magnanimous donation
soaking into the cheerful public transport
upholstery, chasing raindrops down
streets named after dynastic families who
died out long ago.

I never wanted to want the comfort
of your idle chatter or the responsibility
of feeding the other strays you’d
acquired along with me. Ragged claws
in Green Park on a disappointing
Wednesday and postcards of plump
duchesses with witticisms on their
backsides in slanted handwriting.

Was it too much to ask of any of you
to just notice my vagina and politely
ignore my many-chambered heart?
It’s given me nothing but trouble
these many years, and I’d gladly
trade it for a good blind fuck.