by Nick Gisburne
She sees herself, disfigured, bent, bizarre
But strives to find the humour in her form
The smug, pretentious people at the bar
Are tangled in the chaos of her storm
With tortuous embarrassment, they see
The miscreant, the marrow of the joke
Her manic, grim grotesqueries set free
A cloud of laughter, cheers on which they choke
By day, that bright, unbearable domain
She finds no god or government to thank
A flawed, repulsive, paradox of pain
Her dismal ship of dreams already sank
She does not need the sympathy we give
For her this is the only way to live
