The Lady Dressed in Red

Somewhere
on the outskirts
of Liverpool
there’s a little house

Somewhere
in this house
sits a life-sized, life-like mannequin
red-haired
pale-complexioned
with the scarlet blush of ardour
on her cheek

The owner
an artist of some sort
has dressed her in desire’s skin
a roseate flame of
incandescent fire

The doll unsettles neighbours
(well it would!)
and keeps neighbourhood louts away
for fear of what they’d find
if they ever dared break in

What if she came alive
consumed them
as once, long ago
her passion drew him in
claret flush devouring his soul
blood of life engorging his brain
upturning his whole world
in a swirling tide of crimson