ClothesOld clothes slide on the skin like mausoleum night shiftsMore Like This
Those ghosts of the party, the beach and the cried out nights
Lift the soul to the floor.
The stitching is too tight and my legs are itching to be free
They drape the flesh like blinds that were alright for old me
I have grown.
My style is the same but more defined like
Biro ink on lined paper
The yellow lemon drop retro skirt of the fifties but I made it 00’s
The cars zoom all over it, still to be worn
With the baggy Shelley shirt.
My gig dress catching dust, as a memory of
first musical occasion
Too classy too feminine to be emo
But that was it
Team Jacob and the Technosaurus all with the skinny jeans
In rockin’ black. Always Black or Bright
The summer florals to be worn at 30 swished below the knee
Still with opaque leggings
They stick to skin,
All of them now.
They’re not me. They’re old me.
Not Bobbly and threadbare but…
Too much room,
Enough for ghosts and memorie