So, we were both sitting there sadly having yet another end-of-romance post-mortem, and she said ‘When we were “in love”’, making little quote marks with her fingers. And that one hurt; not the love fucked up, but the denial that it had actually been real. What’s the point of hurt if it can’t be transmogrified into bitterness and then made into a song, hey?
Silka walks in those evenings When you feel like you’re still a virgin.
You don’t trust your feelings, Silka’s certain she’s hurting.
She is dressed in lace when she says, “Yes, yes, I will; of course I will, yes” -
But if you feel the need to believe her, remember – Silka’s in fancy dress.
Silka in black satin, her long blonde hair in rich profusion;
Something useless happens, reinforcing stupid illusions.
And after all the sinful applause and your unsatisfying taste of success
Comes the knowledge of the flaws that you hate because they’re yours,
And in walks Silka in fancy dress.
Bejewelled in a shattered promise, she’s wearing fading fraying denim.
You’re pierced by inverted commas
that have appeared round the tales she’s been telling you for so long.
She’ll decree: “Everybody loves me”, but it’s too late for you’ve already guessed
Underneath there’s nothing that’s real to see; Silka’s only fancy dress.
Really, she’s merely fancy dress.
She’s very nearly Silka, wearing fancy dress.