out in the city
Two women: both dykes.
One/ primped up pretty/ giving it the bleached blonde/ lip-sticked/ feather bowered girlie.
The other a man-she/ a him-her/ the butch.
Nobody stares at us because there is nothing to see/ we are looking like them/camouflaged
Me and B/ my B/ broad in the coat/ gorgeous tall/ working class enough/ to be proper tough/ and we need to be because it is 1987 and every single day/ one of us dies from Aids.
We die but they do nothing/ because we die from ignorance/ apparently.
Anarchy in the UK is getting soft/its going off the boiling stage/ leaving us at the mercy of tepid ballads/ that focus our eyes on the guise of/ just wanting to dance with somebody/ or fill our pockets with loads a money.
Except we can’t because/ we are the three million unemployed
With nothing to do but watch/ Jim’ll fix it on telly to learn about love
Blankety Blank to hear jokes about/ the blacks and the poofters/ lesbians’ though/
we are alone when we are together/ making do/ just us two/ waiting for a real man to give us a proper seeing to.
If we’d collected a ‘naff tax’ on just that/ we could have bought us an island by now
/to escape to.
Bee and I are glad we don’t look gay/ we are homophobia free happy this way/ passing for strait we become more and more/ blatantly sexual so…
Strange as it sounds
Debenhams becomes the site of our/ DIY porno/ leaving our clothes in the changing rooms/ like Mr Benn we wander about for hours/ dressed like old ladies in corsets/ wigs and hats/ or don dog collars and drop to all fours/ playing puppy who’ll fetch/ along shop corridors/ nobody is paid enough to bother us/ nobody cares/ if we go Rocky three in sportswear/ or if B orders a milky coffee in a silk suit/ from menswear first floor/ with me laid across her lap/ the worst example of a St Trinian’s child whore/ till the women’s toilets call
We lock ourselves/ into British library reading rooms/ refusing when asked to come out quietly/ until the fetch the key/ and we storm out imperious/ shouting where’s the loo?
But the truth is every gap between parked cars/ is our personal pissoir.
The scrawls on the dyke toilet walls tell us/ ‘Lesbians are fucking everywhere,’/ so Bee and me/ we go there/ no graveyard or alley escapes our lewdliness/ and not just fingers wet/ we are whole hand fisting/ throat clenching some/ pushing heads between legs/ learning how only women come.
Suddenly we capture the camera’s stare/‘Love Bites,’ by Della Grace/is our pretend family album/ we become a gang in there/ sexing each other up/ in fake weddings with whips/ rattling our big fat bike chains/ and sticking out mucky rubber dicks.
Somehow now we are on TV/ in the nations living rooms/ where the country eat their tea/ so now even Margaret Thatcher can see us frigging in the rigging/ there was fuck all else to do.
Pop stars like Madonna and Sinead O’Connor/ want people to think they might be dykey/ we have made the zeitgeist/ they look more like us than we do/ as lesbian chic floods the mainstream.
Cheek more than chic though/ prostituting us worse than pimps do/ never give us a single penny/ of the money / do you?
Truth is they do pay in a way/ kept us poor like a reservoir/ you could say I lived off
the wages I was due/ my fortnightly dole/ all I had to do was queue/ but you better not be late/ because they could make you worse than wait.
Unlike my foreign girl sisters/ I didn’t have to do hand jobs/ in the peeps shows of Soho/ still it was not enough to keep us out/ of toe curling second hand shoes/ and that shit don’t go.
Bee and me belong/ to Chain Reaction our dyke sex family/ and we start spreading the love we feel/ financially, socially, sexually/ by showing each other our cunts/ lips, clits, skin colour/ as we spread our legs widely
Pleasing ourselves and one another
All of us the same and different
All of us ‘proud of it’ queens
All of us resisting the shame regime
By coming fucking together.