Poetry 2

CHESTY MORGAN

By Philip Cairns

Copyright 2009 by Philip Cairns

Chesty Morgan contemplated having breast reduction surgery

And looking for a McJob.

Her huge breasts hung down so low

She was unable to cook breakfast on the stove.

Her tits would flop out of her negligee

And end up plopped into the frying pan,

Scrambling the eggs and burning her nipples.

At the age of 75,

They almost reached down to her labia.

Chesty had deep indentations on her shoulders

From the weight pressing down on her bra straps.

I bought a DVD, from the Net, of Chesty Morgan’s two starring roles on film.

Not porn, just campy soft-core exploitation silliness.

No sex, just lots of bare boobs.

I was fascinated by her appendages.

Chesty possesses the largest breasts I have ever seen in my life.

I sat mesmerized, as if I were watching the landing of a UFO.

She made her living from those ta-tas

But it must have been a nuisance to own them.

It would be like carrying 50 pounds of groceries with you

Everywhere you went.

In these two movies, Chesty wears bad blonde wigs,

Hideous, flowery Seventies clothes and five inch platform heels.

Her voice is dubbed because of her thick Polish accent,

I am told.

Is she the eighth Wonder of the World?

Having sex with her would be like screwing a waterbed!

Her teeth are kind of rotten at the back

Making me wonder if she has dragon breath.

The midriff bulge spills over the sides of her tight skirts.

Her breasts cascade out of the front of her enormous brassiere.

The screen is saturated with washed out reds and turquoise

Because the film stock has deteriorated in 35 years.

The tinny music reminds me of my wild youth.

I’m sure millions of men would love a wife with tits that big.

I want to meet Chesty Morgan and ask her about her stripping career.

I understand that, even to this day,

Pushing 80,

She still gardens in a halter top,

Frightening the neighbourhood children

And giving guilty boners to all the frustrated teenage boys.

Chesty was in Fellini’s “Casanova” but ended up on the cutting room floor.

You can watch a clip from the outtakes on YouTube.

A friend of mine went to see her strip at the Victory Burlesque Theatre on Spadina

Back in the late Seventies, when she was hot.

Chesty, you are a work of art, my dear.

A trailer trash diva made of fine cut crystal.

Bless you.

PURPLE WAS ALL THE RAGE IN PARIS

By Philip Cairns

Copyright 2009 by Philip Cairns

Emotions are churning from the depths of my soul.

So intense, they feel like the fireworks in Hitchcock’s “To Catch a Thief”.

Don’t know where they’re coming from.

Faded dreams surround me, as if an anvil had crushed my chest.

I miss the labyrinth-like streets of Paris.

The ecstasy of seeing the “Mona Lisa” in the flesh,

So to speak.

The stunning beauty of the Paris Opera House and the Notre Dame Cathedral.

Buying an exquisite purple etching on a winding street full of art galleries.

I long for the Parisian outdoor cafes

And the beauty of the well-dressed, fashionable women.

The gorgeous, jewel-like young men glowing in the sun.

Getting lost and winding up in the Red Light district.

A prostitute motioned for me to come to her.

Her friend (was he a pimp?) helped me to find my way.

I was only one street away from my sought-after destination.

I wasn’t blue in Paris.

Spending money,

Shopping.

The glorious spectacle of the city dazzling my child-like eyes.

Walking in lush, giant, manicured gardens beside an enormous palace.

Ogling rare jewel encrusted goblets in the Louvre.

Standing in awe in front of masterpieces by Leonardo da Vinci.

Purple was the magical colour in that late summer:

In store windows, in people’s clothes on the street,

My Hugo Boss shirt and mauve suede shoes.

Judy Garland sings “Paris is a Lonely Town” but I never felt that way.

My companion had scores of relatives, wining and dining us.

The plump old aunt who lives in a fashionable part of town,

With teeming, trendy cafes below her plant-filled balcony.

Annie is good friends with her dead husband’s mistress.

Only in Gay Paree!!

The Arc de Triomphe blew my mind.

So much history oozing from every pore.

Respect and reverence for the past.

I bought a gorgeous miniature high heel shoe near the Seine.

I swam in the pool and took steam in a gay sauna bath

But I remained chaste for the whole trip.

Sitting at meals where everyone spoke French, except me.

Everything sparkled in this vibrant city.

I was mesmerized by the sight of the Eiffel Tower

Lit up in the distance at night.

I stood in a square and stared at it for hours

While young street performers twirled flaming batons

And danced a choreographed routine.

My friend bought me a bathrobe that cost $180!

Paris, let me see you, again, before I die.

Embrace me.

Let me gorge on your culture and beauty.

You are like another planet, dipped in antiquity.

Ancient sculptures sit placidly in your museums.

Let me sit on the top of the double-decker bus

Sucking in all your riches.

The cab driver said, “It’s only the Eiffel Tower. Big deal,”

As we passed it for the first time in daylight.

I sat sniffling in the front seat because it epitomizes romance, to me,

And I never thought I would see it.

Life has turned out so different than I had planned.

Dreams turning into nightmares.

But walking along the Champs-Elysees at night

Is like a rush of fresh poppers.

Loud cafes with glamorous women.

Magnificent, old triangular buildings.

Winding, narrow streets.

The over-the-top owner of the art gallery,

Who could have stepped out of the British film “The Red Shoes”,

Flitting around with enormous eyes and her hair pulled back in a bun.

Warm, perfect weather.

Beauty lurks around every corner in Paris.

Let me drink you till I burst.

Feed my spirit and inspire me.

I need to see you one more time.