Monday, 31 August 2009
gigi schappell ( aka Love is Hairy)
My first ever epic poem written during the peak of PMS. It reflects the usual feelings of insecurity, self loathing, paranoia, irritability, irrational thinking, mood swings, and a tendancy to turn on the loved one who is usually an innocent bystander. Mostly, it's just a silly poem about the hairy side of love.
Love is hairy, stubbly stuff
shave all week it's never enough
whether I shave it or slather on Nair
whack it or hack it will always be there.
Keeps coming back as much as you crop it
waxing and chemicals can’t even stop it
try to ignore it the nubs comes in thick
even my eyebrows, a uni-brow chick.
Come Saturday I don’t really care
let it grow outta my underwear
Let it alone that unruly mop
looks like I got me a nice bumper crop
This is my way, ain’t gonna change
my love and my hair are looking deranged
Sitting there pondering love and love's looks
flippin’ through Cosmo and metrosex books
Beauty is bare in my favorite rag
Nary a hairy or haggard old nag
Eyebrows are separate and carefully arched
Lips are injected and never seem parched.
Legs are butt smooth, and so are are the pits
Love is not given to hairy chick fits.
Speaking of nares, mine is exempt
The nose and the ears are extremely well kempt.
Sunday mornin’ rolls around,
but his razor can’t be found
I call out his name and wait for an answer
his ditty bag’s gone could It be that dancer?
The one that he watchesthe one he admires
could she be the one whose igniting his fires?
I’ve seen her there waiting, the picture of grace
smooth, fair and agile not a hair out of place
I sit on the edge of the tub shocked and numb
look in the mirror then look at my thumb
I eye up the woman whose not spent a dime
on personal pleasures as though it’s a crime
My overgrown garden could not see the light
though i cared once, now scared, like a crow in the night
Bought into myth and every girls hope
that she’d still be worth something without any soap.
Rummaged around in a drawer feeling sick
through my tears I lay hold of my old Lady Bic
Slipped into the shower, convinced he despised me
lathered and cried none of this has surprised me
He'd seemed a bit distant, preoccupied,
the more I persisted the less satisfied
I should have considered, my Love is not blind
his eyes are like sponges, his vision will find
The best of the beauties the cream of the crop
as sweet sugar blossoms parade past his shop
I have an epiphany, there in the suds
Time's never wasted on pruning the buds
Better to nip 'em if you're feelin manly
can't be mistaken for Charles or Stanley.
Lord knows the time that I've put in at Curves
for the sake of my health, for the sake of my nerves
But who really cares if he's after that minx
just between us we know how she stinks
Let him go sister try rising above
cuz if that's all he's after it ain't really love.
Making my plans to rip up his picture
wipe out his memory, no longer a fixture
I can't say that I needed nor much that I cared
for the man or his old dirty laundry I've aired
When into my steamy retreat disconcerted
the voice of the man I was sure had deserted.
I silence my heart and put down the Bic
ease back the curtain and see my St. Nick
The hairy faced heathen is battered and worn
face kind of prickly needs to be shorn.
"What is THIS?", he demands
and held out his hands
a worn out old mach 3,
the triple edge brand!
"I just CHANGED this blade
and the thing's dull and rusted!!"
"Heck if I know"
but I know I’ve been busted.
Step out of the shower bare skin drippin wet
"At this rate I think I’ll buy stock in Gillette."
I hold out my bic and smile at old Bones
"Would you like me to light your cigar, Mr. Jones?"
Leave him to his business
which won’t include the shave
Love is stubbly, love is soft
and hairy to the grave.