Bombshell

Bombshell...

They don't use that word much anymore
to describe girls like you
As if your kind just disappeared
when excess fell out of fashion
Though how they managed to lose a woman like you
in a sea swell of dainty girls
eating yoghurt in petite pants
I’ll never know.

Bombshell.
the sound of it
Rolling…
Exploding!
suggests ships of steel and gun powder
docked in the port and overpowering the horizon
with bulk and shape...
conjures up the fat arc of depth charges
rolling off starboard sides
and teasing a voluptuous fragroom of fish into the air
scattering the self control of men to the wind like seed
It’s the sort of nickname that causes uncomfortable creases in pants
like images of lingeried girls straddling planes as they fly over base
to the salute of sailor suits
and an extra helping
of thigh and breast and arms and lips and lots of it

Bombshell.
That’s the sort of powderkeg you marry
knowing
and maybe even hoping
it will end up in divorce
and not caring
because bombshells are meant to go off.
That’s part of their excitement
Like curling irons and high heeled shoes
and words you don't really mean
thrown against the wall in a hotel room
Like the sound sex being had in the flat one over
while you curl your finger around a red phone cord
Like you walking into a bar and everybody noticing
but no one saying anything because
lust and hunger
have been tamed by sex on TV
and a burger on every corner
because the war is long gone over and
they just don't make
bombshells anymore