Running to keep up with the tottering pile of work….a heap of purply grey and pink polkadot and sludge-green and silver and there’s a party looming and still no frock for me, not even the whisper of a prospect of one and the invitation demands ‘sparkle’. I don’t really do sparkle but I could just manage a bit of glass dangle about the ears…will that do?
I feel a Cinderella moment…..all sorted but moi…
I’ve always felt that I’m on the outside looking in, even as a child – not quite fitting in. It often gets mistaken for aloofness. It’s not. But nothing much changes. I see it in the playground now among parents – the honed-and-manicured-sparklers, the old-before-their-timers, the intellectuals, the goths (metaphorically), the head girls…..It’s fascinating but I daren’t publish the poems which it’s inspired!
Anyhow, this one of a few poems I wrote in the summer after visiting our local lido. It’s along the same lines, sort of…
All the world’s here,
a glorious cliche.
The bikinigirl who’s here to be seen, to spot a mate or many
she’s not that fussy,
she just likes the attention
and confuses sex with love.
You can see what she’ll look like in 40 years:
the same peroxide thatch
kept free of the water in case it turns green;
the same slightly too-pale lipstick.
The same, just sagging
and brown-wrinkled as an unravelled cigar,
still trying to find someone who won’t think she’s a slut.
The two large girls who have matching tattoos
and matching engorged bodies
and who dive and swim like dolphins.
And their pale boy no, man, who’s been etched like a
and whose chest is ribbed and concave and
who is helpless in their wet clutch, a plaything.
The woman on the edge who thinks she’s too big for a bikini,
who nears the water the way she nears a cake:
with a release of desire,
and elaborate gesticulation
and dives the perfect arc of smiling brown-lycra-ed flesh.
And we, the too-thin, wide-eyed middle class
wrapped in John Lewis’ finest
thick towelled body armour,
shivering among this seething life.