2002-09-27 -

A favourite poem of mine, reminiscant of an insane, obsessive ex-girlfriend of mine. Come on - everyone has to have at least one.

Please excuse any copyright type stuff I might be interfering with.

"Let Me Be" (Lucy English)

Let me be. Let me be. Let me be . . .
Your slut.
You know the one you ring up when you've had a fight with your girlfriend. And there she is. In a top that's too tight and a skirt that's too short.
And you can have her.
You can have her in the hall, and on the stairs and in the bathroom and on the bog.
You can have her anywhere.

Let me be. Let me be. Let me be . . .
Your drunk slut.
You know the one that's been hanging around the bar all evening.
With that hungry look on her face.
And now it's closing time.
And you're the last decent cock that still works.
And here she comes.
A bit old and faded. A bit unsteady.
But you don't care because you've had eight pints of Otterhead to cloud your judgement
And besides, you're up for it.
So you invite her home, but you don't actually get there.
You land up in an alleyway that smells of cider and cat's piss and elderflowers.
And there you are shagging against a fence
In a tangled mess of pulled down pants and trousers.
And when you do get home you fall asleep straight away in a chair.
And you don't hear her flitting about your house
Like a trapped bird.

Let me be. Let me be. Let me be . . .
Your mad drink slut.
You know the one who rings you up twenty times a day even when you're at work.
You know the one who sends you six love letters a week,
Then runs screaming after you because she saw you go into a shop with another woman.
You know the one who's always hiding behind that bush in your front garden
So, when you leave your house you're never quite sure whether she's there or not.
You knwo the one who's always peering in through your windows
And where did you leave your binoculars?
You know the one who's so good at disguises you're never quite sure
Whether she's that old lady walking her dog
Or she's that man with a beard on the bus..
You know the one who stands outside your door for an hour in the rain
Until you let her in.
Until you let her in.
Just so you can talk to her.
Just so you can say to her, 'Please. Leave. Me. Alone.'

But somehow it never gets to that.
Somehow it's always the same.
It's you on the sofa with your pants down and one thought going through your head.
Oh, no.
Oh, no.
Oh yes . . .

Let me be. Let me be. Let me be . . .
Your evil, mad, drunk slut.
Because she's so mad she knows exactly what she's doing.
She's getting through to you.
She's getting through to you.
She's becoming you.
She is you.
And you cannot extinguish her.
You cannot extinguish her no matter how hard you thrust.
Like the moth that flies into the candle again and again.
Ftt. Ftt. Ftt.
Fizzling with desire as you burn in the flame
Of your crafty, evil, mad, drunk slut.

Your angel.