It's something to fill the hours
this poetry stuff
at the grave of Sylvia Plath -
notebook in one hand,
a bottle of fizz in the other
or is that Jim Morrison?
or was that a can of Tennent's Super?
Eventually it gets hard
in your lap. It is damp.
Soon you will have to unbutton
and get it done.
No-one looking.
It is Keith Moon on that gravestone.
You are a teenager again,
a right proud arse on you,
red as a baboon.
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Showing posts with label teenage. Show all posts
Showing posts with label teenage. Show all posts
Tuesday, 16 September 2014
Thursday, 10 January 2013
FUN THINGS TO DO WHEN YOU'RE THIRTEEN
The first time I came
I was faking
myself into thinking
I'd come,
but all I had done
was shudder
the way I had seen them do
in the movies
and imagined
a white slick of spunk
on the magazine.
Later, I became obsessed with guns.
Every summer seemed to get wetter.
I became obsessed with guns.
I was faking
myself into thinking
I'd come,
but all I had done
was shudder
the way I had seen them do
in the movies
and imagined
a white slick of spunk
on the magazine.
Later, I became obsessed with guns.
Every summer seemed to get wetter.
I became obsessed with guns.
Labels:
adolescence,
fantasy,
growing up,
poem,
poetry,
sex,
teenage
Monday, 15 October 2012
FOR ALL OF THE BOYS IN YOUR YEAR
For all of the boys in your year,
who you dated or kissed with your
girlfriends at discos or on our
front step before our mother
or father swung open the door
to shower your tipsy selves where
you stood in hall light, I loved their
expressions of surprise and hairs
downing their lips and chins with beards
that were adolescent, yet far
from the boys in my year who were
still in that acned, awkward, weird
moment, when the pubescent herd
turns to a million hundred
points of the compass and the birds
flock out of the sterile pastures
to search new nests in older hearts
by thudding, vigorous wing beats.
who you dated or kissed with your
girlfriends at discos or on our
front step before our mother
or father swung open the door
to shower your tipsy selves where
you stood in hall light, I loved their
expressions of surprise and hairs
downing their lips and chins with beards
that were adolescent, yet far
from the boys in my year who were
still in that acned, awkward, weird
moment, when the pubescent herd
turns to a million hundred
points of the compass and the birds
flock out of the sterile pastures
to search new nests in older hearts
by thudding, vigorous wing beats.
Saturday, 6 October 2012
IT WAS
for H B–W
It was failing at maths, sweating outside
exam halls, aching for sex, a faceful
of acne that wrecked my fumbling attempts
at boys. Some idiot said, your school days
are the best of your life. It was blind fear
in corridors and changing rooms, hunted
by richer, fitter, prettier kids, who
had the right brand of shoe and designer
jackets. It was the friendships I fostered
among those shadows I hid inside. It was
playing it straight for the gallery, while
dancing another life under lasers
and spotlights. It was Cossack and Freedom,
a lie that I told. It was my first kiss,
the first time I shaved and wore cologne.
It was failing at maths, sweating outside
exam halls, aching for sex, a faceful
of acne that wrecked my fumbling attempts
at boys. Some idiot said, your school days
are the best of your life. It was blind fear
in corridors and changing rooms, hunted
by richer, fitter, prettier kids, who
had the right brand of shoe and designer
jackets. It was the friendships I fostered
among those shadows I hid inside. It was
playing it straight for the gallery, while
dancing another life under lasers
and spotlights. It was Cossack and Freedom,
a lie that I told. It was my first kiss,
the first time I shaved and wore cologne.
Labels:
adolescence,
gay,
growing up,
Heather Bailey-Wright,
homosexual,
homosexuality,
poem,
poetry,
puberty,
queer,
school,
sex,
teenage
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