Who are you? – sometimes you whisper with the moon a-glint in your eye, in the quiet shard of time in our pleasure’s thunder – who am I? You have no idea – I am thousands of pages of words in languages you don’t understand, I have been turned and rolled by tongues in foreign phrases, I am songs you’ve never heard, I have a hundred thousand stories under this well-worn belt – but I am a woman in your house, in a dressing gown, with a broken-down car, content with a cup of tea and you – don’t take that for granted, love, for I am an artist who feeds on cheap thrills and novelty, on new smells, new skins, who gathers stories as pebbles to scatter as I careen down life’s path, in the hope someone lost will find their way, or stop a moment to admire their sheen – I suggest you judge not this cover – must I remind you that I am come in earnest, not in pretense – but there’s always an underneath, a swirl of other worlds – must I remind you that, like our dear companion Patti, I remember nothing, but my body is a library, filled with dead poets, drunk pens, and my limbs and the words that drip from these lips have roused more songs than I could allow myself to utter – just because I sit courteously contently sipping this cup as though butter wouldn’t melt means nothing, so take it with a pinch of salt – I am an inferno, out of control – I am the wind sweeping through the door – water to wash and drag you to the right shore – wild, wily, grapes of wrath forged of the bone-dust of the Tuatha dé, druids, saints and scholars that came before.