My tailor understands a clean profile;
the sensuality found in every chalk line.
There is no Duck Shove, it’s all Rock of Eye;
no Mungo from his mangle – not an ounce
of fat from gorge to gauntlet, skirt to scye.
Could be Arkus, it may be Starr – can’t tell you who
he is, he’s mine. Could be Goldberg, it may be Mars;
can’t tell you who he is, he’s mine.
I won’t have no bodger cutting my turf;
if it takes fifty hours labour and then
ten thousand before that, well so be it,
I am nineteen years and I know my worth.
This pinstripe's my parish; sheared from coade stone.
which these protean times shall not erode.
This Tonic is my decoy – my stigma
and my stamen. Blowing through realms, every station
and adding two inches, for girl or boy.
Joseph Long
If you have any thoughts about this poem, Joseph Long would like to hear them
