(By Mike Anderson)
Agonising in desire to please, she was amateur
Drop a little oil into my brown-washed dry hinges
Naked in the Pink Room, shoulders
I filled my glass and raised it
The tension in his set eyes was vacant and now released
He stopped transfixed by the light
She could not explain her insect bites
Its thirsty weather, said the bus conductor, he said it all through the Summer
An elegant stain, gesture, paralyzed passionate look
He stopped transfixed by the light
She could not explain her insect bites
His voice was curt and masculine
I took a whiff of mescaline
A flake of coke on abdomen
On a skin that felt African
Jesus allow this moment
Between lips parched and open
Your cream, a scented lotion
Your Roman ocean, golden
Volatile, uneasy Summer of 1939
I didn’t need to work, I was beyond fame
He stopped transfixed by the light
She could not explain her insect bites
Laid on Marcelles bed with the phonograph
Criticised yourself, taste for self analysis
He stopped transfixed by the light
She could not explain her insect bites
His voice was curt and masculine
I took a whiff of mescaline
A flake of coke on abdomen
On a skin that felt African
Jesus allow this moment
Between lips parched and open
Your cream, a scented lotion
Your Roman ocean, golden
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