Saturday, 3 April 2010


Scorpio, he said, in a voice
like a Mariachi band hired
to woo. We laughed

because it was festival and
because everything that month was
fuse-lit fireworks, spaghetti-straps,
and the scent of shoulders,
hot and sticky and coconut.

That cobbled street was thick with people,
harsh-voiced macaws adjusting their plumage,
handing tickets to another show.

We didn't need theirs.

We had hearts like the
trombone unicyclist, like the
seven-colour lazer, like the glitter-copter
that rained Christmas in our hair. We had
kisses. We had thirty-one days and
we were electroluminescent Scorpios,
feet bound for dancing.

We were our freakshow and
we wooed ourselves.

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