Wanton The paparazzi got her again outside the chip shop next to her London hotel, still drunk, the strap on one heel undone, her dress wine stained, once white, her hair elf-locked, only this time she looked at one right through the lens of his camera, came at him, her thighs two columns, her lipstick horriﬁc and he knew, though he would only say once, years later, piss drunk in Wales, a cab driver now and his head shaved, grey stubble coming in, yes he knew it was in fact a goddess, a minor one, not Greek, her name unpronounceable, and he understood that if he did not instantly smash his camera spectacularly on the ground he could expect no kiss, no erection, not even one look from any woman, ever again that did not suggest he had farted. So of course he did it. And the others took pictures of that, and of her again, undressing, walking away from them and into the tube.
by Christopher Buehlman
This poem from Christopher Buehlman wastaken from ‘The Forward book of poetry’
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