Vogue

Illustration by David Scurr

Background story...

David was inspired to illustrate this poem by a childhood story of mine.

I was twelve at the time and my mother wouldn't get off of the phone. With the aid of "a whipped cream can" I became a rabid, snarling

dog. My mom was laughing and couldn't answer the frantic woman on the line who was concerned for my mother's welfare. Guess the barking and growling was enough for her to keep repeating the phrase "Velma, do you want me to call the police?"

The cartoon? An adult me in a rabid state. Why?...now that's...

Vogue

Let's look at the women of women's magazines...
They wear make-up to bed; make-out like fiends.
The women of Vogue, Vanity Fair, Miramar-
Y-know what I'm saying, y-know who they are...

Those flexible women working flexible hours,
having flexible sex in flexible showers,
whose flexible skills help them in bed
and to fix the Hairdini on the back of their head.

You see I've been thinking of all of that stuff
and come to the conclusion I'm not nearly enough...
and with work, time and money, you know I could see...
that the woman...women hate...if I try...could be ME!

I'd knock off my parents; there's inheritance there;
get a breast augmentation, peroxide my hair.
I'd fake my I.D., fake an accent and then,
I'd fake some orgasms and fake out some men!

Pull up my socks, go to the gym,
sleep with a jock, play life to win,
suck out some fat, suck in my cheeks,
suck up to money, not eat for weeks!

A "Professional" woman...that's what I'd be.
A "Professional" woman with professional fees.
But it's not like I really conspired to charge...
It's just that I'm forced to with a debt that's so large.

Quasimodem