The rock wore green mascara
And white caked make-up hardened into tumours in the ridges of her cheeks
People said – you’re all washed up
People said – you weren’t like this in my day
She dreamed of Ali – her stylist – who would touch up her dry patches,
ease her bald moments, as he told lies about the lands beyond the Wet Sahara
The rock dreamed of a way out, or a way back in
But in her heart she know that this was her way – down – and there was no better.
