An Epiphany

This is another poem I re-worked from an exercise asking us to write about a memory.  This is a tongue in cheek recollection of my teenage self going to see my favourite band for the first time.

An Epiphany

Crushed together in a mass of bodies, I feel the sweat
Beading and tricking down my back.  Its surreal, the thrum
Of the sound check feels unreal; a vibration through my limbs.

Clad in leopard print and purple feather boa – placed
Together they put Bet Lynch to shame.  Sharp ends of
Cheap feathers cling and dig into clammy skin and thick
Black eyeliner melts.  However much I try to be cool
I am a damp, feathery panda who can no longer lift her arms.

The lights dim and a roar rises from the crowd.  Unfamiliar;
A mad dance begins in my stomach.  As if suddenly allowed
Bodies push forwards in unison and there he is, standing proud.
Below Nicky Wire I feel cowed; I am staring up at God,
Allowed to gaze from here; and I have never seen anything quite so
Beautiful, as that six foot man wearing inch thick make up and a red tin hat.

My Kind of Place

I adapted this from an exercise I did early on in A215 asking us to write a passage or a poem with cultural references.  I used the late nineties as a backdrop and now feel brave enough to adapt this into poetry form.  I will probably keep working on this though as everytime I look at it I decide to change it again!

My Kind of Place

I never felt tension in that queue; the faint
Whiff of potential violence was always there
In other nightclubs – enough to subdue a bellyful
Of vodka and lemonade.  Here that was rare –
The badly constructed line winding through, slowly
Descending the staircase; Doc Martens and
New Rock boots stuck like glue to a carpet,
Turned from blue to brown through years of wear.

Fusty, smoky, dry ice blew to infiltrate our intoxicated
Procession as we crept into our lair to hear The Smiths or
The Manics spinning on the venues CD player and
I would think, ‘this is my kind of place’.

It would come later in the night of course.  After
Copious amounts of cheap lager and vodka.
By then we were too drunk to care or feel remorse.
United in our self imposed difference, asleep to
Outside; the course of Clinton, Blair, Iraq and Kosovo –
Only individuality and music mattered, no matter how bleak.

Our discourse wasn’t true though.  Not entirely; All skin-deep.
No bloodbath here every Friday night, but we would compete
To be diverse.  It just took a while for the glitter to fade
From our eyes that’s all.