Two hundred and seven words. 17
he girl’s foolishness, to pack the temple to a cute, camp, bi demi-god and reach to touch the hem of his garment, saying to herself, “My arm is a river, my hand, almost like a snakehead, is its first bore of the year,” while being solidly deafened, while being crushed against the edge of the stage, while gazing up, her eyes never leaving the wonder, that wonder being can she transgress herself and let grass grow in her own pavement cracks; outside, she staggers, drunk with sound, with breathings out, with the brute street-lights in darkness, having to balance on her own shoes and not be borne up by the press of bodies, her own a baste of sweat drying, cooling, shivering – later at home the girl lies back and plays his forty-fives, counts her years, realises she’s beyond a girl, that wonder is now a “When did that happen?” and “Why should it happen?” and “What do I get?” and how many transgressions will it take – but right now there is a taste of metal in her mouth, her tongue and gums are sore, adoration is a kind or mortification, she feels the crunch of gravel and worn tarmac with her heels, taking the wrong direction
@Marie Marshall. I thought I would write about the time I went to see the (apparently there is no ‘the’) Buzzcocks, in a club somewhere, and how utterly magnetic I found the late Pete Shelley. The above might be it. And that’s more of an explanation for a poem than you’ll ever get from me.