Cloth Sacks and Baggage
And just the other day I winked hello
to my colleague that morning (as most like to do),
‘you’re certainly looking super today,
can I say that?’ ‘Yes,’ she replies, nods head,
as I'm rolling my tongue around 'ssss',
she of a winsome grin and certain poise,
and maybe you'd express horrified surprise
that she didn't stalk off to hiss white noise
or cover the world in clotted paper;
a rose throws shoulders back to show off those,
and young petals bloom where life grows.
And actually, why don’t you all wear sacks?
You never see that - instead make-up cakes
your faces and drops upon ballgowns like flakes,
adorning covers of magazines and TV listings.
I guess you suppose that such sacks
should be reserved for the whipped backs
you fondly grind under stiletto heels
to grace flick knife chariots with bladed weals.
Let’s not even give you that much credit,
it’s nowhere near due. Some certain stars
of certain class and certain age,
were heifers once they trod the stage,
aged clod hoppers without style of grace,
clogs for shoes and masks for face.
You should sport sacks of corrugated sheet
that once wrapped cow nuts or chicken feed,
scatter the ground with thin sickening seed,
for mawkish crows to hungrily peck.
Why, they’ll make a celebrity of you yet,
stretch paper thin their wrinkled skin
taut across those cheek bones grim,
while you point and leer at all who sin,
from within your spanner sets of socket skulls,
shriek like greater black backed gulls,
and 'holier than thou' you all espouse,
hawking venom from green room in glass house.
