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John Cooper Clarke
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Valley of the Lost Women
the windows are frigidaire icebergs
frozen in prickly heat
the vanishing cream victims
are drip-fed amnesia neat
where the test card melodies warm you
in powder blue pseudo bel air
germs and flies alarm you
they whisper the word expelair
the eyes of the night sub-zero
peep through the windows of sleep
everyone's husband is a hero
and ghost insurance men creep
through the valley of the long-lost women
dreaming under the driers
eating and sleeping and slimming
according to what is required
they walk through three-colour brochures
depicting palms on aqua-marine
in the half-built hotels out of focus
they're mending the vending machines
where sixty italian love songs
are sung to a million guitars
they lick their frozen drinks on sticks
among the men with important cigars
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numb to the digital numbers
none two three
four five six
lost in a far away rhumba
where the oil-drums are beaten with sticks
she left her heart in frisco
she left her room in a mess
she left her hat in the disco
she never left her address
the diving board springs to assistance
throws you off from the shore
telephones ring in the distance
there are lifts getting stuck between floors
a truck turns into a cul-de-sac
springtime turns to ice
rucksacks turn into hunchbacks
musclemen turn into mice
in a painless panorama
with its perpendicular might
the women are going bananas
and disappearing from sight
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