Sunday, September 23, 2012

Poems about Bottoms.

They say that inspiration can be found in the stangest places.   Can I clarify that inspiration is not the sort of thing you can find by looking. It’s an uncontrollable force, that springs upon you from a dark corner, or a light corner.  Or a street corner.

That’s where I was the other day, this morning now I come to think of it. Minding my own business, alone with my own thoughts on a crowded street, fighting my way upstream a seemingly endless flow of commuter traffic when it hit me.  Not literally, or that would take this story in a whole different direction.  

By the time I arrived at work I had composed a poem about bottoms and it was bursting from me so that I had to rush my morning greetings, fumble for my keys, grab a piece of scrap paper and scrawl it down as fast as my fingers would allow, before words escaped me, or the similes grew legs and ran away.

When the light goes green
I look down,
and there in front of me
are two large white tuna fish
slapping back and forward inside
blue fishnet stockiings

Above them sits a corduroy covered bottom
Soft and round like a great
plump easy chair.
Overstuffed and bulging at the seams
Taut haberdashery, faded wear spots and
cotton fluff peeping out the sides.

Over there, an anorexic stool
in pinstripe trousers.
Tall, spindly,
more of a decorative piece than
a weight bearing device.

Behind him there’s a bucket seat.
thin grey metal rods topped
by a generous scoop
Voluptuous curves gently
boldy swiveling

That man is a chair in a governement bureau
Outside the Principal’s Office.
Hard, firm, and square.
Unforgiving, Unmoving.

There’s a reason it’s called ‘your seat’.

So then, of course, I came to the title and I was going to call it ‘if you don’t mind, I’m going to talk about bottoms’, but you see I wasn’t quite sure whether that was right- was I talking about bottoms?  Or bums?  or sweet derrieres?  There’s butt to throw into the equation too, and of course let’s not leave posterior behind!  Before i knew it – there it was.  Another blinkin’ poem.

It’s time to get to the bottom of this.

Butts  belong to men. 
Stocky, pudgy, hairy men. 
Who wear baggy trackpants with poor elastic waists. 
Half the time, you can see half the butt.  This is not nice. 
These men lean over to tie their shoes in the most annoyingplaces. 

Bums are what kids have.
Little,and cute, and object of jokes. 
Just say the name ‘bum’ and you want to giggle. 
It’s supposed to be less embarrassing to say than bottom.
 It also comes in handy as an insult.
You’re a pooey poo bum!

Bottoms are whatmothers’ have. 
Because they’re trying to educate their children to use proper anatomical terms.  and
not be ashamed.
 No, don’t call it a willy.
 Incidentally, bottoms also belong to babies. 
As smooth as a baby’s bottom.

Rears belong to farmers who have spent too much time with livestock
They are just so familiar with slapping the darn things,
they no longer give them the respect they deserve. 
In such places you my also hear use of the words hindparts, hind, or ‘hiney’.

Nethers are the possession of poets, people who love Thesauruses,
and those who grew up in isolated locations during the 19th century.
 Imagine if these people went to the Netherlands.
Tee hee hee.

Backsides are what grandmothers have. 
They don’t have to worry about anatomical correctness because it’s not their child.  
They’re polite and comfortable with euphemisms. 
Passing wind,passing away, and ‘little ladies room’.
 Backside slots in quite nicely.

Derriere’s are owned by naughtly children.  Especially in France. 
Now you just sit your derriere down in that corner and think about what you’ve done. 
Excuse my French.

Gluteals sit with the athletes. 
They are really nice to stretch. 
You have to contort yourself into all sorts of crazy positions, but it makes you look really hard out.  The gluteals are made up of three main muscles; Maximus, medius and minimus. 
Sometimes I think I have an over-abundance of maximus.

1 comment:

  1. hehehehehe. When we were kids mum and dad called farts botty burps. Your poems just made me remember that.