ODE TO MICK

At the beat of his drum kit
female hormones rage.
He covers Hendrix, resembles Bolan
in glam rock costume
with leather platform boots,
and has even paraded as Jagger.

Groupies, he assures me, mean nothing at all,
are simply ego stokers:
bleached hair, pouty lips; good to be seen with
on an album cover
or in a nightclub - no substitute
for me though. At least, that's what he claims!

But how his eyes belie such noble declarations:
each ogling a stark betrayal
that wounds, unsettles, penetrates my armour;
his fame secured so dearly,
at such expense to my confidence.
Is his body as faithless as his eyes?

Pretty girls hanging around the stage,
swaying in ecstasy to his lyrics and the mood
he's so cleverly created, each one hoping
post concert to sneak away with him
for a notch-on-the-bedpost hour of passion -
that will drive another sword through my heart.