Conform To Pink Satin
It has hung on the door for seven weeks,
by Cecilia MacAleer
Bright pink satin, very Marilyn Monroe,
In a sale, ninety percent reduced,
Now to diminish myself by that same number!
I wrap myself in cling film and lie in the bath,
Looking preposterous I apply mud and cucumber
After my detox I need to de-stress so I light up a fag…
Well they are menthol…
I survive on lettuce and pepper between
Wholemeal, wholegrain, wholly unsatisfying bread
Oh… and several mars bars
To fill that hollow which devours me?
Five weeks later, five pounds heavier
I brave my purchase once more.
The shop assistant said pink brought out my delicate features,
(Now they solely bring out the spot on my nose,
I reminisce of Mount Versuvius and other similarities)
She put the ass in assistant.
I pine for former days and women come before me
Of Venitian curves and golden curls
And the lost art of femininity
A noble brow, a strum of lute or a line of verse.
We recess to girls and paint our eyes black
Like a child, we turn to the streets
Child-whores for men
I am sick
I am sick
I am sick no more, there is no difference
I resign myself to failure and squeeze myself
Into the pink wrap and resemble a blamanche
When staring in the mirror I look like an engorged sausage.
After another two weeks,
I prefer sausages
My mother before me was one of them;
A dragon with French cigarette smoke
Protruding from her nostrils.
Such prospects, such promise, sped
Away through such crevices and extinguished her
Like the wisp she was
And the subtle undertones she aspired
And to which she fanned the flames with
Her spirits strong and raw.
In one aspect like my mother,
I gather up the bottle but instead of drinking
I look to the people of Holland for some guts
And I saunter through that door, uncaring,
Miss Piggy in satin, now where is Kermit the frog?
Two fingers to you Miss Vogue
Kiss my pink bloated backside.