Even as a child Bramshaw was obsessed With brassieres; He liked the shape And bright colours; He liked to imagine Them filled with firm flesh, Warm and motherly.
When he got older Heβd steal them From neighbouring Washing lines, stuff them Beneath his coat And put them In the top drawer Of his dresser along With **** magazines, French cigarettes And photographs Of Bridgett Bardot.
He liked to imagine The women who filled them; Liked to rub them Against his cheek; Liked to sniff them For scent or sweat, But all he got Was detergent And the smell of soap And warm fresh air.
Later he got To put them on, Sizing them up, Feeling them Against his chest, Fixing them from behind With his fingers Almost breaking his arms In the process, heβd walk Around his apartment With just the brassiere, Swaying his hips And sticking out his Imaginary breast, Pretending he got Wolf whistles From loud guys On building sites; Imagined he got the stare From the guy downstairs With the blonde hair And large blue eyes.
Once he bought a pair in blue, The correct size saying They were for his wife Lou, And the girl was all helpful, All information; pointing out The this and that of brassieres; And all the time he was gazing At her *******, wondering What colour she had, what size; And only after that was done Did he gaze into her eyes, Into the window of her soul, And saw small demons Laughing at him From each dark hole.