He sees a pair of sweatpants and pants and sweats.
Has panic attacks over unpressed khaki slacks.
Grimaces over Christmas sweaters and jackets with letters, man.
He can’t spot a sports jersey without feeling queasy.
Someone’s got Crocs on and it’s making him uneasy.
He finds function over fashion a dysfunctional passion.
He’s all ascots and porkpie hats,
smoking jackets and backpocket handkerchiefs.
A dapper child of Oscar Wilde
getting sick at the wardrobes
from the Wal Mart aisle.
He saunters down the street,
glances sideways at a department store display
of perilous apparel and garments gone
and starts bleeding from his eyes,
leaks crimson on his finest peacoat,
collapses on the pavement,
and chokes a sob from his throat:
AESTHETIC IS DEAD.
Composed 2012. Gratitude to Michael Lohrman for the title. Read the rest of this entry
I’ve been meaning to clear something up for some time now.
It’s a little matter of nomenclature.
Every time some caveman motorist screams from his lifted truck,
or some such endearing expletive
and then screams off to the sports bar or whatever,
I never have time to make my rebuttal,
I’m not a hipster, I’m a dandy.
I can see how your feeble, just barely functioning minds
might get confused on the matter.
After all, anybody with a style,
that’s not sagging shorts and crooked caps and Metal Mulisha
and therefore fair game
for your limited intellect
Read the rest of this entry