The poet strides across the boards reeling
off his verse like some touched religious nut
slowing down to emphasis the feeling
he is sure will be aroused. Then a rut
of his groin at the front row, this means he’s
sexy too. Look at him there, smoldering
away like Heathcliff, shooting the stale breeze
to a crowd of teenagers bordering
on the edges of shrill hysteria
have you ever seen a crowd more engaged?
a final waggle of his posterior
then poetry comes all over the stage.
Silence. The students are slack-jawed and dumb
‘til a hand’s raised, tentative, polite
Wryly the question begins with an um
Then why on earth are you’re trousers so tight?
Skinny black almost elastic drainpipes
Clutching those spindly pipecleaner pins
taking sapling steps. You’ve seen the type -
flat trainers and thighs that look like they’re shins.
That’s what I always wanted: anorexic
heroin chic, like those boys in The Strokes.
I wanted to be thin with legs like sticks
all rib cage, with biceps as thick as spokes.
But as sure as man can’t fly and Scousers
can’t take a joke, I can’t wear skinny jeans
yet still I tried to squeeze into trousers
that had clearly been made for ditzy teens.
Why did no one tell me that I looked a prat?
Like an apple balancing on a pair
of compasses; moon faced, sack stomached, fat
giving off the unmistakable air
of someone so completely out of place
I’d stand out from all the other geezers
sweat beading like gelatin on my pallid face -
I looked like blamonge skewered on tweezers.
And for what? What was the human lollipop
impression in aid of? The gut on stilts.
I was just frowned at like a golliwog -
popularity falters as dignity wilts.
Nothing stinks like effort, reeks like trying,
Nobody wants to be too self-aware;
that question made me see I was lying
to myself. Time to find something else to wear.
And with that my relief blew like a keg
Months of a waistband imprinted on hips
having a bollock squashed into a leg
of fumbling with buttons, struggling with zips
months of avoiding shop window reflections
for fear of catching a black denim sausage
so like an ostrich, no ego inspections
and yes, I looked a bit like an ostrich
months of wondering if I pulled off this look
like the man in the shop said that I did
sniggering into his jeans order book
or whether I just looked like a dick
were over and it was clear to me then:
if you’re in a hole you should stop digging
don’t worry about all the other men
If your ego’s that fragile stop bigging
yourself up. never be afraid to cough
always scratch the itch, always quench your thirst
and if your jeans are too tight, take them off
but only… wait until you get home first.