I’m glad that I can put a bra on now. It’s so useful to have somewhere to put my smartphone other than in my knickers.

In the past women wore knickers with long legs with elastic around the bottom and that was where they could keep their handkerchief or if they’d had a phone they could keep their phone there but now most women wear trousers.

So if you’ve got a large bust a bra is a useful storage place. You don’t want to look as if you’ve got a weapon in there so think about it very carefully especially if you own a gun.

Never carry a pair of scissors in your bra. You could carry a rolled up beanie hat or a pocket hanky.

Remember less is better the more. If you carry a ballpoint pen make sure it doesn’t leak.

But don’t keep your smartphone in your bra when you are feefing a baby because you don’t want the baby to start using the phone do you? Wait till the child is at least two years old before you let them have their own phone and wait till they are 15 before you buy them a bra.

It is better for them to leave their phone at home and let them run out to play in the street with any other children who are still allowed to go out of the house.

Because you can use a phone all your life but you can only play in the street until you are adolescent and it was  one of the happiest times of my own life. Of course there wasn’t so much traffic then. People didn’t lock their front doors and the kettle was always on the fire for any  unexpected visitor.

Once you reach adolescence I’m afraid life is completely different and I don’t think any adolescent wants to keep a phone in their bra to be absolutely truthful. A bird in the hand is worth two in a bra.

Postmodern poetry has no formal shape
No sonnet,villanelle or rondeau there
Nor is it true or false that we are apes

A sentence made from curses aggravates
Makes even slight hurts something we can’t bear
Postmodern poetry has no formal shape

This very poem’s ironic , it emotes
Glares with total rage at you who care
If it’s true or false that we are apes

This poem,alas, will offer no escape
If it has no rhymes then I have flair
Postmodern poetry has no formal shape

The forms are hung until we get to break
We shatter and we crack the poet’s lair
I think it’s true and false that we are apes

For a metre I will hang in here
Waiting with no patience for a jeer
Postmodern poetry has no formal shape
Nor is it true that thoughts annihilate

Between the world and how we represent
The nameless by a name and even place
There is a space or void in our intent.

What mother saw, what father really meant
How love and hate might intertwine in space
In our own world, what can we represent?

In writing, there is lack and letters bent
For ancient writing often scholars traced
There is a space or void in our intent.

Today the sun is golden, gods descend.
With love, for moments, we are all embraced
Of the felt, what can we represent?

Our willingness unblinds the heart so rent
And then we see the face within his face
The space or void is in our interest.

I cross my eyes with fingers interlaced:
The crucifix, the love, the death of Christ
Between the world and what we may attempt
There is a space or void where he was sent