Round Zero

She sings in Brixham,
the flotsam and jetsam, sea shanties in rounds,
from lips chapped by cold, salted breezes swept down alleys of old.
Boats chink in the harbour, water batters the break,
the storm has a name like Gurnard or Blake,
a man shouts at the barman over the amp.

His thrust is in slow motion,
his fist meets her face, in an upper room after close when her leather boots are unlaced, her blades forced to floor as she's greeted by spit,
a monopolised Queen
made for more than this.

She sang in Brixham,
the flotsam and jetsam, sea shanties in rounds,
from lips chapped by cold, salted breezes swept down alleys of old.
Boats chink in the harbour, water batters the break,
the storm has a name like Gurnard or Blake,
a man shouts at the barman over the amp.