Nemesis

Gatecrasher One was gutted by flames and now

 a river’s rushing towards Wicker Arches.

A half-submerged ambulance’s lights

still flash crazy-blue and she thinks there’s a disco.

Ecstasy-fuelled she discards her white fluffy boots

and wades into the chilling waves.

A piece of shit floats by.

She sees the swan and she thinks that if she’s Barbarella then

this must be Pygar. She strokes his glistening throbbing throat,

in awe at his elegant form, safe in the knowledge:

An angel doesn’t make love. An angel is love.

His yolk-yellow beak bites at her nipples and swollen,

unfurled wings ensure his rapture, her rape.

Her mother sits at home and watches it all on BBC News 24.

‘Oh Leda,’ she sobs, ‘Oh Leda, my child.’  She watches it all as

her daughter washes away the slime and swims off to await the hatching,

clutching a torn-off feather.