Dancing About Architecture No 12


Posted by in December's Magazine

You’re so vain.

Next to you, Narcissus is but a flirt.

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You’re so vain.

I used to think hubris was a dish made from sesame, chick peas, garlic and lemon.

You’re so vain.

After hunting for pleasure, with some measure of success, found gathered in the lyrics of Cole Porter are the kicks you like best.

You’re so vain.

When the weather changes, cock, you spin around; for once the “i” lost and an “e” found.

You’re so vain.

For you, success is a recurring theme, after a little man atop a flaming pie sang you the secret in a dream.

You’re so vain.

Dare to call yourself a poet? More like the tail that wagged the doggerel.

You’re so vain.

She’s screaming electric with Walt Whitman and composing an evening sky for Emily Dickinson.

You’re so vain.

The drugs don’t work, as the dirge goes. They hardly need to when the ego is an ever expanding cosmos.

You’re so vain.

Vanity Fair wants you on its cover, still you’re holding out for Vogue and no other.

You’re so vain.

I’m the singer and you’re the song. You’ll be Fay Wray to my King Kong.

You’re so vain.

Her literary talent and quantum ambition are the stuff of legend – or should that be myth?

You’re so vain.

A senior cleric claims Jesus takes your name in vain. I heard you’re on Buddha’s speed dial and in Mohammed’s contacts the same.

You’re so vain.

You bathe in crocodile tears and concubines dry you off with angels’ wings.

You’re so vain.

You say you’ve got Bette Davis eyes but in the monocle of the beholder is where beauty lies.

You’re so vain.

He’s rolling in four leaf clovers. The zobr.

You’re so vain.

For getting out of bed you demand acclaim, drafting acceptance speeches in hope the Nobel committee don’t misspell your name.

You’re so vain.

Graham Greene said a writer requires a splinter of ice in his heart but yours could stage the next winter Olympics.

You’re so vain.

Three lines, said Kerouac, for an American haiku. Hit the word count, Jack.

You’re so vain.

Thinks he’s God’s gift – non-returnable. His body is a temple. Shame his soul lies in rubble.

You’re so vain.

At what cost this love of the common people, of geese and Goethe’s citrus sorrows?

You’re so vain.

I put all my adjectives in a suitcase and bury them in the garden. A tree grows on the spot. What happens next I want to relay but worry I cannot.

You’re so vain.

There’s a dragon in my heart. She was a cartographer’s pin-up in her day.

You’re so vain.

After consumption of these words, one is advised not to subscribe to Reader’s Digest, kidnap the children of Russian oligarchs, or wear purple.

You’re so vain.

I’m a clerk and it sounds as in Gable but uncivil servant’s the label I best resemble.

You’re so vain.

On the sofa she flirts like a film star and I don’t even make the school play. When she leaves, it’s with my heart in a sweet shop jar.

You’re so vain.

He’s been busy now for months making money for c***s. Put that in your mission statement.

You’re so vain.

Maledictions swirl around her like pilot fish.

You’re so vain.

They abduct truth, kidnap hope and steal compassion, shackling the captives before consigning them to a Cuban swamp.

You’re so vain.

Hidden depths? How quaint! Jules Verne you sure ain’t.

You’re so vain.

That voice belongs to a karaoke siren in a little red frock lamenting the lack of haemorrhoid cream from her island rock.

You’re so vain.

You disguise ambition as a fast food clown, conceal motives in a 75 page manifesto of Zeitgeist-flavoured burble, and banish doubt to the four corners of the empire of your sub consciousness.

You’re so vain.

I flirt with the Three Disgraces: treachery, perfidy and cupidity.

You’re so vain.

A weasel dressed as a stoat with ermine pretensions, he majors in Nixonian cokum, finkery and chumble.

You’re so vain.

I have nothing to declare but my genius – oh and I loved the Mekon but Dan Dare came between us.

You’re so vain.

When not tinkling Schroeder-like piano ballads, he writes about the arts and crafts set in the ever shrinking pages of The Morningside Gazette. There’s no beginning to his talents.

You’re so vain.

So I tell her like it is. Sis, this truth for you shall be unfurled: Today Leith, tomorrow the world.

You’re so vain.

Tell me I’m wrong. Go on. You’re so vain you probably think these words are about you, don’t you, don’t you.

This month Rodger read Triksta, Nik Cohn’s love affair with New Orleans, met the great Fred Metcalf – gag writer for Kenny Everett and Morecambe and Wise – and, while visiting the British Library, entertained the idea that God is a speechwriter

Twitter: @RodgerEvans

 

 

 

 

 

One response to “Dancing About Architecture No 12”

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