A prose poem about tits

Political Support

The ‘80s Wonderbra is the lingerie equivalent of UKIP: attractively buoyant at first glance but built on false fillets with nothing to support its claims, embarrassingly prone to self-exposure and inevitably ending in tears. Trendy T-shirt lightly padded bras for those who refuse to admit to nipples are New Labour yummy mummies wearing floral frocks and bearing half-baked cheery cherry buns. The feminista Greens don’t see the need for Man-made Lycra, elastic and sweatshop-bent under-wires: they’ll take breasts as they come. Which leaves the Tories with the Playtex and the M&S matron ranges proclaiming their winning mantra, “Lift and Separate”.

 

Jo Bell’s slightly-scary-but-ever-so-exhilarating 52 project is now at Week 22 with an exhortation to write prose poems from guest prompt-setter Luke Kennard.

There are some stonking pieces already posted in the accompanying FaceBook 52 group, even though some of us are not quite sure we’re “doing it right” – or even if there is a right.

The above was my attempt.

I left out the Lib Dems on the basis that so does the universe, plus, at the moment, the poem is exactly 100 words, which means I can say it’s a Drabble. (And then people might think I know what I’m doing because I know some jargon. (Back to the politics?))

While I’m on the subject of tits: I remember meeting a charming group of elderly lady writers a few years ago and picking up their regular anthology of work to find the volume fell open at a poem with a startling opening line something like “Tits are bouncing on the table”. That her line momentarily and alarmingly conjured a scene quite unlike her intended garden nook (with its chirpy sparrows and cheery chaffinches as elaborated thereafter) will always stay with me.