Such a trend-setter;

latest fashions all in the palm

of your soft and oiled hand.

No flavour save that

you abuse in

your Cruiser;

Insipid as the fashion of the

men you call losers.

Stand in your gaggle and

wink at the barman,

pray that the guy only sees

that you're calm,

and knock down your drink

onto one of your friends:

the bitch tore your hair out;

we'll see if that mends.

But the main point to notice

is that you look fine,

because looking this good

takes so much of your time.

The nausea is rising

in the back of your throat,

and you stumble to leave;

forget your bag and coat.

The street won't stay still,

and the lights seem to twist,

and that bitch with the drink

aims at you with her fist,

and you're down in the gutter,

and nothing's the same,

and you think you hear someone

softly calling your name.

But you can't help but wonder

when the last comes to last,

if your mother had this sort

of strife in her past.

And the blackness is circling,

like ink down a drain,

and the voice in your head is

a callous refrain:

Such a trend-setter;

latest fashions all in the palm

of your soft and oiled hand.