The best thing about British smut magazines is the accent.
The alien intonations of two dimensional beings
whispering things like, “Cheerio good chap”
or “Chuffed to the muff”
or “Mind the gap” into your horned up ears.
These Miss’s Poppins,
these snaggle-teethed, half-price, spice girls,
clad in faux leather interpretations.
These women are goddesses,
turning low lit basement photoshoots into ancient sex rituals.
Coated paper hieroglyphs for us to worship.
These whiplashed Aphrodite’s
transmogrifying the filthy covers of plastic encased periodicals
into just the kind of debauched bridal veil we’re looking to rip off,
then throw away.
Hooded hoards replaced by hoodless whores,
motherless in a wasteland,
just another reincarnation of a better writer’s dream,
to express terror at a world in heat,
the last bit of virtue,
a final piece that isn’t yet rotten,
the placenta of childhood,
slipping out of you
like something you never thought you’d miss,
all bliss-blue and bruised,
brittle and clear,
something bone deep and sweet.