By Ted Naughton
Last orders at the New York, New York.
A Wednesday cabaret – queer?
SPOTLIGHT
She sweeps back the curtain and taps her heels out to the centre of the stage
The light floods her red rimmed eyes and the ice pupils glint
A stick thin showgirl
With powdered crumpled skin
A fragile brittle chick.
A splintered shard of beauty.
Hush.
A titter.
She fascinated some.
She intrigued others.
I feared her.
And her feathered headdress
Askant,
FLICK.
Feathers peacocked up
And whirrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrred
Out behind.
As she lifted the mike.
The speakers roared and she belted out Constant Craving
Hands clap for this moulting Marie Lloyd.
She spoke, I saw her lips move, tiny teeth tore at words I did not listen to.
A joke.
A pair of Knickers from C and A she spoke of.
Perfunctory sniggers.
Another dancey song
This bird could sing
And Juno could go and shut her bloody cake ‘ole.
She speaks to us:
Be careful you lot out there, wear a condom, don’t end up like me!
Right, one last one from me Loves.
She sang her torch song and then her flame was gone.
My seatbelt clicks and I go too.
But sometimes she flames back, this Phoenix peacock,
To me.
Her eyes scorch here beneath my skin
I tremble, smile
Continue.
The End
Ted Naughton (he/him) is a gay writer who lives far, far out in the boggy woods with his rescue dogs and his demons.
