Victoria Cooper
My teeth are stained, grouted
in deep red wine, my breath
fancied in its perfume:
Wolf Blass Shiraz ‘No. 5’.
Charmed him. Success.
I submit my nerves to bubbles,
flutes and flutes and flutes
of champagne and flutes to
serenade our new love.
Pivoting on ecstasy and thin heels,
I steady the kitchen bench.
I am spun sugar ready to attract
my fly, my guy, my fly guy.
Then at last,
my right swipe speaks:
Your Uber is here, please leave.
Victoria has probably written a poem about you* before. She studies politics and international relations (ooh la la) and semi-regularly complains about popular culture in Honi Soit. Please like her. *you = that guy in Laneway who ate a flakey croissant last semester.
