I went to the finders keepers market, to be inspired
by the art of fashion illustrators, specially hired, to portray fashion’s most exciting creations with individual creative interpretations.
I liked what I saw; such talent abounds!
I couldn’t help noticing, while looking around
at how muted and pastel all the products were hued
everything designed in a mood most subdued;
as though colour was seen to be vulgar and bright
too hard on the eye; only subtle is right.
Well, here’s a prediction for the coming season:
I have noted (and not without reason)
we’ll soon see colours bright, cheery and dramatic
enticing us down from our dim-lit, pastelly attic
The dictators of fashion are so very precise
they kindly include in their unchallenged advice
the exact pantone numbers of the colours to wear
so we may step out in style, without a tremor of fear
that our clothes may be dated or the colours all wrong, confident, knowing we’ve got it right; we belong.
(Burnt orange, sulphur yellow, true red and deep teal, mint green contrasted with blue for extra appeal.)
But not only in clothes, in art and design too, you’ll observe
In a loud, brightly-hued direction, we all, herd-like, will swerve.
I wish I had a bubble butt
Instead I’m burdened with excessive gut
If only my bum were nice and round
and quite a bit further from the ground
Seen side on I’m flat at the back
My proportions all sadly out of whack
Instead of a bust-balancing curvaceous rear
I’ve a bum that slinks lower down each year
Regarding implants I fear the worst
Surely they’d just rupture and burst:
Think of all the hours that pass
While one is sitting on one’s arse!
(Another worry with the cosmetic solution
is to do with the effects of internal pollution)
So I remain, in comparison to the divine Beyoncé,
The Human Sconce, eh?
by Bumfree Bogart, aka Flying Buttless
When I lived in London
I too, did the party thing:
smoked lots of fags, took lots of drugs
shagged untold blokes
(and yes, sometimes, cos I wanted the hugs)
When you’re young
you’re so heedless and free
No fear of damage; ‘it won’t happen to me …’
Looking back now, with the wisdom of years,
I’d say to my young self:
forget the dramas and tears
Very little, you see, shall remain
of the heartbreak, and sorrows,
Those decades of hard living when I drank like a fish,
I reflect on them now with only one wish
(and each wish, we know, is born of a fear)
that, like Kate Moss, party chick without peer,
I too, was blessed with miraculous Dorian Gray-like grace
so that years of debauchery
would never show on my face!
some resourceful soul, in LA, I think,
recycles cotton t-shirts worn by boys in the clink
all that masculine sweat (plus, we imagine, blood and tears)
renders the fabric softer than a kitten’s ears
reformed into delicate textured dresses
(after being thoroughly scrubbed of their inevitable messes)
selling for more than a prison song in an eco store
their origins add a sense of edge to couture