Sinister: Parrot fashion

[poetryplace2]

Hello pop-pickers
Squawk! The Poetry Parrot turned up this morning to perch atop the Poetry
Cafe and sound its barbaric yawp across the rooftops of the world. It left
me with this poem about pants, by the American poet Stuart Dischell, from
his new collection ‘Evenings and Avenues’ published by Penguin in America.
Let us hope this is the last word on underwear. Before he fluttered off in
the general direction of Linda Kerr (who, as is customary, is now obliged to
provide the next poem), the parrot asked me to mention that Hefner will be
singing songs about sexy librarians at the Sinister Social tomorrow evening
in Covent Garden (poetryplace2 at easynet.co.uk for more details)...

stevie trousers
xxxxxxxxxxxx


IN DAYLIGHT

When I find a pair of underpants on the sidewalk,
Women’s or men’s, I know there’s a story behind them.

If I am sad, I have a sad story that concerns
A woman who sacrificed so hard for her family
She lost so much weight her underpants rolled down
Her legs, and she stepped right out of them, kicked
Them off, not knowing until later, when she rested
On the table at the clinic where she sold her blood,
Why the crowd of donors was looking up her skirt.

But if I am lonely, I tell a lonely story
Of a man who had nothing but the clothes on his back
And a few garments wrapped in a scarf on a stick.
He lost his spare briefs, having come to our city
To find his natural parents after the foster family
Died in the fire he set. They did not pay attention.
Now, without clean underwear, no one will ever love him.

And if I am horny, I think up a horny story
About the couple that met last night at Brann’s Pub,
Who would not walk the distance to get at each other.
In consequence, they merged quickly in the recess
Between shops, her back pressed against the glass,
He lifting her a little to get the right angle,
Her panties dropped or discarded in the process.

I head on home, feeling sad, lonely, and horny.
I sense my own boxer shorts struggling to be free,
To rid themselves finally of my hips and buttocks,
To be pulled from my pants like some magician’s trick,
To flap in the wind and come to rest on the pavement,
To show for all to see their inexorable statement
About me, their judgment on my life, my flag of surrender.












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