In the autumn of 1967 a cloud in the shape of human buttocks
appeared over Krakow
—Nina Fitzpatrick

A pair of buttocks forging along Shirley High Street
without feet, legs, arms, without anything—

Only when Adeline tried to sit down
did she realise something was wrong.

Too late now.

She shouldn’t have spent so much time
on Tik Tok. She shouldn’t have abandoned
Russian literature.

Cut me some slack, the buttocks said
and made a dash for it.
A magnificently large pair of buttocks
with no little swag.
They were going for Egalité, Fraternité and Liberté.
They wanted to sing La Marseillaise.
They couldn’t remember the words.

The buttocks drop into Boots
and buy some Coco Mademoiselle.
They make their way down Shirley High Street
in a vapoury halo of lime and patchouli.

Workmen high in the sky with hard hats
whistle so hard
their teeth fly across the city.

A small but growing number of youths
start following.
What a day!
The pied piper of buttocks
swinging their way down Shirley High Street.
Jouissance!

They pass the Pie Shop. Nice.
And the Pawn shop.
Nothing to pawn. Only denim
made in that faraway country
EL-AL Chutzpah.

The buttocks nip into the Black Sea Supermarket.
Welcome, welcome,
when it comes to goats and/or buttocks
there’s no discrimination here.
They pop some Bulgarian goat cheese
into a back pocket.

The buttocks pass the Turkish Barber’s
and the barbers say
Come in! Come in!
I have no hair to cut my lovelies
Come in anyway, please . . .
We could do a head massage.
You couldn’t, you couldn’t.

They sail past the Bingo Hall and the Catholic church
and there’s the beginning of a traffic jam
and the hooting
of horns but the buttocks are unconcerned
and move with purpose and panache.
They cross the road
and wave to the held-up cars.
They’re waving without hands.

The buttocks make their way
to the local library
which is next to Lidl.
They ordered a book a long time ago.

Where on earth are we?
says one of the men.
Shit happens says another.
The librarians smile,
an unusual occurrence.

Why not borrow some crime fiction,
the un-official biography of Prince Andrew?
Why not borrow fantasy? People love fantasy.
No, the buttocks say, we want something by Gogol.
Who? they say.

Google it!

The book has arrived
and now the buttocks are collecting it.
It had taken the library a long time
to track Gogol down who was happy
not to be tracked down
but they’d tracked him down.
Now the buttocks are going
to take him on a road trip
and they leave the library
with some Bulgarian goat cheese
in one pocket and Gogol in the other.

If one pair of buttocks weren’t enough
on the other side of the road
going in the opposite direction
there’s another.

These are wearing football shorts.
They were tired of losing matches
and just as Alfie was taking a shower
they said Oh no what’s that over there?
Where? There! And when
he turned
the buttocks ducked and shimmied,
patted themselves down
with a towel, threw on a pair
of clean shorts and legged it
(without legs of course)
down Cawte Road.

If one were preparing
a spreadsheet of buttocks
these would go in a different column.

As if Aphrodite had called on Polykleitos of Argos
saying, I don’t want common-or-garden buttocks.
I want buttocks which sail through
the theatre of Dionysius like a chariot of fire—
I want buttocks which shimmer
in the bathhouse like the sun rising over the hill.
I want buttocks which give Tom of Finland
a run for his money.

These buttocks aren’t without followers either:
women, men and a three-legged Golden Retriever.

People are opening their windows
and playing that old game lobbing the nut.

(Any nut will do—)

If they hit the spot the buttocks crack them.
Crack! Crack! Crack! left right and centre
as if they were setting off firecrackers
in the back streets of Naples
as if they were at the Festival of San Gennaro
waiting for blood.

The buttocks slip into the Misty Magic Tattoo Parlour.
India says I have been waiting for you
and the buttocks begin their lamentation:
Alfie has tattoos
on his arms and legs and chest and thighs
and we’re a tabula rasa.

India wanted to put an arm round their shoulder.
There weren’t any shoulders.

It is what it is India said.
They are what they are.

Move over Michelangelo, these are mine.
Shall we do the elephant god on one,
and Lord Shiva on the other?

The buttocks slip back into their shorts
throbbing paradoxically,
They carry on down Shirley High Street.

The buttocks in denim head for the Pig ’N Whistle.
The others are heading for the hinterland.

There’s a choice.

Oh no, Oh no
choice
is
despair!

---

To read two more poems from Julian Stannard that appear in Exacting Clam No. 9, you’ll need the print edition.