In the words of Mandy – that's Brian's mother in the Monty Python movie The Life of Brian – I have been a naughty, naughty boy for not keeping up with our podcasts. Today we have two poems by my good friend and an excellent (and I think under-rated) poet Beverly Ellis. The sound recording leaves a lot to be desired (that's entirely my fault) however we also have the text of the two poems: The Look and Waiting to be Asked.
The Look
You’re not really making the best of yourself:
black is – slimming, yes –
but very unforgiving in artificial light.
Bitter chocolate: that’s what you want,
or even praline, but definitely not ginger.
An hourglass like you can get away with a lot:
cross-over fronts, nipped-in waists, fit-and-flare.
Never buy anything in a sale: you’ll only wear it once,
whereas one good piece is an investment.
Accessorise: the best bag and shoes you can possibly afford.
I know you don’t really care,
Given your red cheeks, green concealer cream is useless
so look for a base which provides substantial coverage;
moderate won’t do, not any more
and powder’s out (too ageing).
Above all, you’re aiming for ‘dewy’.
Lipstick has to be fuchsia, a blue-red;
tea rose doesn’t have sufficient lift
and coral is out of the question unless you get the thread veins zapped.
And, remember: glossy.
It’d be money well spent to see your stylist every month,
just to have semi-permanent, a toner,
not gold – more caramel or wheaten –
and a deep conditioning treatment.
Choose one of the new generation moisturisers:
pentapeptides or liposomes.
Facials…
I’m wasting my breath, aren’t I?
Waiting To Be Asked
We sit here on separate sofas,
sip tea
and smile.
Go on.
Do you want me to say it?
Or what if I just grab the back of your neck
and wipe my tits across your face?
Wrench the shirt from your chest,
burst the buttons so they clatter off the walls.
Shall I brave the mysteries of men’s trousers?
Fumble the fastenings before you can move,
yank them aside,
shuck you, silken, from your hiding place,
my forehead bobbing on your belly,
intent like prayer.
Perhaps then you’d grab a hank of my hair,
pull me to the floor, twisting,
tip me backwards like a doll,
earrings biting the sides of my head,
eyes wild, hips bucking…
What? Sorry? Another biscuit?
Yes, of course.
brilliant poems particulary second one