Bra Shopping

Bra Shopping

(or the Campaign for Real Women)

So a poem.  This one is a departure for me on two counts.  Firstly; it’s written for performance which isn’t something I’ve done that much.  Secondly; it’s supposed – at least in part – to be funny.

Genuinely looking for feedback?  Anyone got any thoughts on it?

Bra Shopping  (or the Campaign for Real Women)

So I’m standing, naked,
except for boots and knickers,
and the blond on my new bra’s label’s pouting.
She has full on Girl’s World hair.
In fact, I’m sure, all she ever read
were the shampoo instructions.

You know;
Rinse, lather, repeat.

Hairstyle’s not the question though,
I’m looking at her breasts.
She’s got the most perfect pair,
of inflated plastic peaches. Airbrushed.
To make them rounder;
and she’s modelling my new bra.

You know;
flesh tone, positive lift.

And I’m thinking, naked;
How come redheads, with acne,
moles, biopsy scars and a little attitude,
never get these jobs anymore.
Or even Dana Scully doing her bit,
for female scepticism.

You know;
“All lies lead to the truth.”

Maybe they thought: sex sells.
Well sorry folks, that’s not my type;
still wouldn’t be if my scale of she to he
were differently measured.
She’s lacking something,
despite the breasts.

You know;
I’d not stay for coffee.

My heroes are poets, writers, musicians,
friends, lovers, game-changers;
Not lifeless pink plastic dummies;
style-static, de-sexed, sterile; hollow.
So I’m pretty sure
she’s no model for me.

You know;
makeover magic’s skin deep.

On my next bra label I see;
something useful and beautiful.
A train map or my gran’s punch recipe,
the names of all the seas,
a set of chord progressions or
how to put up a shelf.

Or, you know;
a picture of you. (Or me.)





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