28 Jan




In the manner of Mr. Cooper-Clarke


It’s hard to forget, it burns like bleach in your mind. The solitary love experienced with your dad’s spank-mags, which you just can’t seem to find. No matter how hard you look or how hard you try, it’s the memory of those dirty, nasty, filthy, delicious, books that puts lead in your pencil and a gleam in your eye.

It was a Friday night disco where he spied her first; six lager-shandies and still dying of thirst, in the village hall, with fresh, shaved legs and shower-washed scent, a catalogue princess, on that strobed-striped-sticky dance floor, a smoke-shadowed-seductress with lascivious intent.

Thirteen weeks of one-pound ten before she’d get her mum’s permission to order from Gratan’s again. But worth the wait to look that good – spaghetti straps, stripper heels, knickerless – the belle of the ball, the light of her daddy’s eye, the bauble of the neighborhood.

The focus of every wet dreamer, a wankers delight, one more from the bar and he just might, ask her for her phone number, where did she live? Hoping she wanted it as much as he fucking did. A cock-tease apprentice and consummate liar, the object of morning glory and spotted puss-filled teenage desire. With a look you only see in fingered, dog-eared Spanish-holiday brochures, watching her dance around handbags, with her pathetic always-there mates, while you imagined her yours.

An exchange of numbers and a promise of more; fond, clinging, groping, farewells as you’re pushed out the door. Bodily fluids, sweating palms and the pain of crushed cherry flavoured lips. Sticky fingers and a private to be revisited at some moment in the future as-yet-to-be-ascertained memory digested with the acid taste of village-bought fish and chips.

“Five pound fifty pence, with V.A.T. at twenty percent, mushy peas and scraps. Thank you very much!”

Fortune was smiling and the living was easy, the soppiness of first love, valentines and heart-shaped crap-chocolate making him queasy. Promises of forever easily spoke with silver-lined, down-filled, pillow-top intimacies ultimately broke. The matching tattoos that were supposed to indelibly tether, and all that which was sworn over pints and shared smoky-bacon crisps couldn’t keep them together.


Living it large and smelling of roses, thanks to liberal doses, of the flatulence of change and the antiperspirant of fate.

She’s all you’ve ever wanted but she’s fucking your mate.

She’s breaking your heart ‘cos she’s fucking your mate.

You’ll break her bleeding neck ‘cos she’s fucking your mate.







2 Responses to “PUNK POETRY”

  1. Steve Green January 31, 2014 at 1:56 pm #

    Great stuff Colin. Earthy and gritty, amusing, hard-hitting, and enjoyable. 🙂

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s