I don’t
think a form can be fitted
Into a
semblance of fashion
I wouldn’t
say that
Our bodies
They are unfashionably
Skewiff
Even in the
most
Proportional
Exhibitions
Of squeezing
out
A mould
like
Carbon copies
And replica
prototypes
Broken,
error, messed up?
Misunderstood
Wrongly positioned?
Sloping
instead of straight
Round
instead of tall…
short but a
mind full of
Big ideas
Too tall,
too small, agh
Silence the
beast
In a silly
cap full
Of old
news.
Don’t annul
the best bits
The bedhead
Or no hair
Or tangled
dreams
The missing
parts
The
laughing lines
The curving
memories
Of sustenance
The sore
parts
The messy
heart
The quirk
of fate
The stamp
of you
The
signature nose
The
beautiful unusual
The
freckles or speckled
Spots that
dot to dot
A different
picture
From one
love
To another
The fabric
Isn’t flawed
In your
skin
dark or light
With one
eye
Or two
With no
sound
But the
vibrations of
Your beautiful
Dance
Or the
music
Of seeing
Without
being able to look
Of feeling
while wheeling
Or hoping
that silver hair
Means you
have won time
We don’t
need to fit a tired story
Of womanhood
Or manhood or
People
biscuits
Like cookie
dough
To the
cutter.
We don’t
need
A piece of flimsy
lycra
In between
Life’s moments of
excrement
to say
go out and
feel the
ocean ..
So suit up
proper now Rangers
Get your
own gear on
Make it
yours
Wear it
with your
Best skewiff
Upside down
Round about
Mixed together
Happy/sad
and
Everything else
And stick
it to them…
We matter.
Our
beautiful
Is interpretive
And free.
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