tell me what to wear

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.

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I Wish I Had a Bubble Butt (or Bootywishus)

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,

Yours flatassedly,

The Human Sconce, eh?

by Bumfree Bogart, aka Flying Buttless

That'll be the(Corinne)Day

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,
unendurable pain

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!

t-shirts from the inside

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