Classless my arse.
Body is class entirely.
The beach a leveller?
Well it is. Just depends
who’s levelling.
The hierarchy military,
flesh ranked sharp
as a hammer smashed thumb
a crashing inner parade
of fascist boobs and abs,
flashing meat medallions
of bella donna beach bitch
polarized Il Duce.
Washboards versus Beachballs.
Some hang it out
others squeeze it in
like accordions
wheezing on the sand.
Ain’t it grand?
Our great egalitarian skyte
a seagull gargling
at a bone white sky:
GAAAAARRR!
But topography down it’s a lip-serve lie.
The beauty spot’s gone carco,
a crazy traverse of stretch-mark scars
trench lines barb-wired by birth,
backs to crossbows bent,
burnt and striped as the English flag.
Ah, it’s not so bad.
Beyond the gym’s panel beater
bomby cars park beside lamb bikinis
puff-pastry picnics next to body shop buffets,
maybe swap a pleasantry
over the scenery, the cricket.
Still, everyone knows the score, hey?
We slap like pavlovas into waves.
They shoot the boogie board ballet.
At heart you don’t give a stitch,
but skin deep still curse
that genetic bitch
and walnut finished son, gliding down
the burning white carpet of the beach,
oiled and glistening as machine guns.
* This poem appears in my debut poetry book, Son Songs, just out through Flying Islands Press. If you're interested in getting a copy, please email me at tugdumbly@gmail.com, or message me through Facebook. Thanks!
you bite into it
ReplyDeletelike that mock chicken
on a stick
that's all you taste
and the dentist