Following a lifetime
snagging the animation of my hem
upon a barbed wire fence,
an epoch donning the clichéd cobwebs
of a garb, grey and frayed
and an era clomping around
in flat, regulation black,
terribly sensible footwear,
I have decided
that the prudent way forward
is to hail a black chariot
and wing my way to
Agent Provocateur
to spend an obscene chunk of UK GDP
on a combination of silk, leather
and the most profligate pair
of FMP’s.