I won’t get frightened by the Madonna under the bed, the stiletto in the back, flashback to a childhood memory, the ballerina I busted on my sister’s jewellery box.
The toothpick crowds of new York in the pinstripe hours are slim pickings for a poet. I’m either at the bottom of the Hudson river in concrete boots or reflected in a mirrored ceiling after love has it’s way with me.
I’m a Madonna magazine writer who writes for God, and boy toy socks in the Madonna shop is just the realisation that she’s been playing with me. Madonna prays before every show but it feels like the glow of hypocrisy, Dorothy.