Her hand holds a mirror On the corner of the table As she brushes purple lipstick Round the edges of her finger But it’s nothing new to me I’ve seen her doing it in nightmares
I’ve seen her doing it in nightmares Dropping fag-ash on the carpet As she fiddles with her cornflakes In the middle of the morning Her lips are cracked and dry Her eyes are letterboxes Her mouth dispatches messages But I don’t want to listen
I don’t want to listen To that idol conversation Her voice grates like a buzz-saw As she pulls apart the curtain Blurting half the obvious And hoping I won’t notice As the table swallows words Sinking slowly in her coffee
Slowly drinking down her coffee She looks like Quasimodo Her back and neck hunched over Her head sinks ever lower She reeks of living death As she plasters on mascara But it’s nothing new to me I’ve seen her doing it in nightmares