Sometimes I feel poetry isn’t enough and fiction too trivial a tool to use on some subjects, therefore I employ a different approach. Here are some examples. Please comment.
The Garment Of Choice. By C.p.Singleton. (c)2012
A rite of passage, a coming of age.
To some a warm feeling, to some cold rage.
Patented by the decadent poet, Mary Phelps Jacob, in the early 20©. This sign of female oppression has been around since the Minoan women threw spears, like enraged wife’s whose husbands are too drunk to eat the dinner they’ve slaved over.
They are a “Wonder”!
They are like a Chinese puzzle for teenage boys to fumble over, like sweaty fingers picking up a penny.
Greer was never keen, stating “Bras are a ludicrous invention, but if you make bralessness a rule you’re just subjecting yourself to another repression.”
Me thinks she may think too much and too little.
Wouldn’t these repressed fire-starters have been better burning Y-fronts, because, now that gravity has taken hold, like a fat man on Jupiter, Ptosis is their only reward.
This garment, this toy for children to wear on their skulls like Giant’s ear-muffs, may have its knockers (every pun intended), however, beyond the selling of everything from coffee to cars, music videos to chocolate bars, it does significantly reduce facial bruising whilst running.
How many heavy bosomed ladies are saved from appearing at the end of a cold morning’s jog with eyes like exhausted Panda’s, because of it?
On the flipside, how many ladies sigh with relief, like a full-bladdered pregnant lady after an ultra-sound, when the over-shoulder-boulder-holder is dropped to the bedroom floor after a heavy day?
How many eyes are startled and gasps are aired, like children at a panto’, when a lady removes her bra to catch a few rays? No such commotion is made for a fat man with man-boobs, that swing like a perpetual motion toy, when he removes HIS shirt. Why not?!
Or the crass tutting a proud new mum receives from drones, with hearts as cold as granite and minds like muddy pools, for fulfilling her natural duties to her child in a coffee shop. Why?
It is a whalebone of contention, this brassiere.
Young girls are as proud as young lionesses, with the purchase of their first training bra.
Older ladies buy them like socks.
Bigger ladies scour the internet like a poet does a dictionary, looking for the right word. The bigger the bra the bigger the loss to the pocket.
As for me?
I’m male. I’m happy either way.