Her body is a temple, apparently. Well, good for her. Mine isn’t.
Mine – if you must have a metaphor – is a bus station:
think Chorlton Street, Manchester, circa 1987, those sooty,
sinister fumes collecting in every dead-end airway and doorway;
puddles in potholes shimmer with spilt diesel that will neither evaporate
nor soak away, while the cancerous knees of sick concrete
creak under four storeys of ugly parked cars. In the gents’ toilets
of my brain, an unwashed old man with a four-pack of Skol,
sways dreamily as he chunters his mantra to the visiting passengers,
who piss nervously, before hurriedly shaking themselves dry.
first published in Alliterati Magazine, Issue 18, 2015