On this aquamarine and citrus morning
you don’t deserve to look so glorious,
but you do, you Dorian Grey of cities.
Your clustered Victorian row terraces
are tired and need million-dollar
makeovers but the frangipanis bursting
immoderately in your tiny front
gardens elevate you to sublime
with their fragrant explosions of
canary haemoglobin. Magenta
hibiscus behind your ear, you smog
and asphalt yourself all night then
cancer your skin on the beach.
Your emblem: the botox syringe.
Natasha Dennerstein
