Red carpet, burn marks, blur of piss and Mad Dog 20:20.

Foggy bursts of floral perfume masking ciggies

slyly smoked by giggling under-aged lassies.

 

Who're you to judge, who're you to tell?

 

She fixes her lippy, dreaming of kissing,

lips smack against frayed toilet tissue.

Slug back warm beer to help forget who she is.

 

Not that you can, or you ever will.

 

A bracelet of smoke snakes up beside the coils of her hair.

Boudica in black PVC corset, flowery skirt, big boots stares.

Heart-shaped face framed by purple, pink, and blonde dreads.

 

Live action 'Happening Hair' Barbie.

 

She preens in the mirror, a youthful sage appears,

knowing-smile - a sharpness beyond her 19 years,

wisdom lines beginning to show around a sulky mouth.

 

Don't talk to me, please don't talk to me.

 

She rifles through a small silver bag covered in badges

pulls out a stub of black eyeliner, outlines her eyes

Cleopatra eyes, bird eyes; shaded peacock.

 

Warrior princess, have no doubt.

 

She smiles at the mirror at the silent girl beside her,

“Damage limitation” she says, shifting her hair.

“Damage limitation, there's a mob out there.”

 

Can't stand the smoke; put it out.

 

“Why do we bother painting ourselves beautiful?

This superficial smile, these kohl rings riled.

Why are we trying not to look the same?”

 

Maybe it's to hide our own shame?

 

After this speech, the Gothic Amazon shrugs, continues painting

her lines. Humming along to the over-loud music.

The girl understands, opens her mouth to speak.

 

May as well treat life like a game.

 

Too late, she is gone in a shake of dreadlocks,

and a squaring of shoulders, tits stuck out ready for war.

A cigarette warning with extra earrings.

 

Started around Spring 1997, final version 5th Sept 2011