BareRather than conformTo your choice of style--How you want me to dress,Or what you think would look good,I’d choose to go nakedBare all and show the true me.Every tattoo,Every piercing (oh my!)Every last scuff and scar,Every mark, spot and mole.The cellulite and stretch-marks,Chipped, uneven nails and the first grey hair,Slightest creases of wrinkles at eye-cornersFreckles exposed.Imperfect but true to myself.I am not your dolly--I am flesh not plastic,As much as you might wish otherwise.
To a friend... III was told you wore kilts,Named yourself after the colour red--And of course, you ate fire.You created explosions, and at least twice a yearSet the night-time beach alight.I spent time disbelieving this until I met you,And your pyrotechnic personality.We spoke in depth, put the world to rights,(And decided not to burn it all down)Compared books and heartaches.Scorched by the sun we drank meadAnd I hoped I’d made a firm friend.
To a friend...You loved colour--And unabashedly wore bright purples,Aqua greens and other garish shades.You wore top hats,Curled your moustache,Donned a zoot-suitAnd brought a hearse.An eccentric collectorOf books, gargoyles and green men.(not to mention steam-punk trinkets)Wicked humour, a love of tea,Fur coats and white boots--For certain when you were cast,They shattered the mould-liberally pouring in charm, roguishness and class,(with just a dash of a cad and nefariousness) into a human form,And then left wondering astoundedHow so much personality all fitted into one man.