Chocolate egg girl on your slut-shoes wending your way home.  Dancing done and gifts collected, panties damp with sweat, fumbling in your handbag for your last cigarette.
        Back home now baby, ease the key into the lock.
        The bedroom is hotboxed and in the box in the corner some girl shows her gums and with the remote he changes the wind and she is stuck like that, her tongue retreating, and you can see every bit of the blue of her eyes.
        His cock is already hard when he turns to look at you.

        One more time, just one more time, because you are beholden.  As you dance he presses play and you shimmy to the screams and when you bend over you can see her as she dies, upside-down and in-between your spread and stockinged legs.
        You fuck in three acts.  You are the triumvirate, the three faces of Eve.  You are the Missionary, opened like a Bible, receiving the word of your God.  You are the Cowgirl, darlin', saddlesore and riding through the cramp. You are the Good Doggy, and that is when he comes.
        You fake it.

        Every morning when you wake up, your mouth is full of filth.  He throws his leg over yours and in his sleep he says I fucking told you I could eat it. 
        It takes you a minute to realise, sleepyhead, that there is sawdust in your bed.
        Outside in the street, a car backfires.
        You need to pee.
        It is in the bathroom, the clown, behind the door waiting for you.  First thing you see is the flower and it squirts into your open mouth a gob of greasy spunk.

        I was a clown before I was born.  I jumped here through a ring of fire.  You saw me once when you were small and in my congregation.  My greasepaint face is bad-luck blue and I tumble, and I tumble.
        What I do not like is you.  I do not care for your attitude. I do not care for your shaven cunt,  I care not for him and I hate your little dog, too.
        You have to learn, sweetness.
        Every time you open your legs a clown opens its mouth.

        Broken egg girl in your clown-shoes, my this Top is Big.  Strange that in a circus tent all I can smell is you.
        Do you remember when the circus was a spectacle?
        This time when you bend over all you see between your knees are a thousand upside-down clowns, and all we see are your gums.
Jodie Daber