by Joe Ambrose
I was stranded in the bar of the Clarence Hotel in Dublin waiting for a friend who never showed up. I was there alone for an hour on the early evening of December 8th. The bar, usually serence and gently sociable, was occupied by an office Christmas party so I, having never worked for a day in my life, felt out of place.
I saw a very fat woman in a tight dress sitting on a stool in front of me and I noted the elastic on her nickers cutting into her ample flesh so I wrote down the following:
Her nickers cutting into the fat.
If I was painter,
If I was Rembrandt,
I'd paint that!
FICTION & POETRY ARCHIVE
- At Witz End
- Edwyn Collins rocks Double Denim at the Moseley Folk Festival
- Zen and the Art of Roy Keane
- Drained by the Dish Doctor
- All Things Raf and O
- Trying to Say Something Negative About Brian Eno...
- The Boat That Guy Built
- Lou: Velvet Underground
- Happy Shopper #27 - The Real Tuesday Weld