deepundergroundpoetry.com
Skinhead in Flames
"In the future everybody will be world famous for fifteen minutes." Andy Warhol
Cuff-linked to the Bermondsey tapestry
Knuckles dusted by Dickens’ diesel,
On his manor, twilight cackle
Cracked open the pavements.
Lipstick palimpsest on chipped cups
Housewives drinking tea with the taste of Thames,
Love was the shades of counterfeit whiskey.
‘Harmony’ were a folk group from Felixstowe.
His barbarian banquet, served
On platter of hateful platitudes,
Skulled…..his parents sighed
Alas poor Joe, we’ve lost our son.
His boots weren’t made for walking
Only smashing bones and treading fear,
The night trades blow with gas lamps
Fuelled by spirit of a forgotten War.
His girlfriend smelt of clothes
Left out in industrial rain,
Tender were the hands on his skin.
“Let’s make love Joe.”
Repulsed by the word love
His fists spiralled as a
Fight in an Ealing comedy.
She will find another lover, and
Their children will spit on buried ground.
Above, and below, the waterline
He will gasp for docked air in a cell.
His case rested,
On mirrored shards
He will see only a bald man.
Cuff-linked to the Bermondsey tapestry
Knuckles dusted by Dickens’ diesel,
On his manor, twilight cackle
Cracked open the pavements.
Lipstick palimpsest on chipped cups
Housewives drinking tea with the taste of Thames,
Love was the shades of counterfeit whiskey.
‘Harmony’ were a folk group from Felixstowe.
His barbarian banquet, served
On platter of hateful platitudes,
Skulled…..his parents sighed
Alas poor Joe, we’ve lost our son.
His boots weren’t made for walking
Only smashing bones and treading fear,
The night trades blow with gas lamps
Fuelled by spirit of a forgotten War.
His girlfriend smelt of clothes
Left out in industrial rain,
Tender were the hands on his skin.
“Let’s make love Joe.”
Repulsed by the word love
His fists spiralled as a
Fight in an Ealing comedy.
She will find another lover, and
Their children will spit on buried ground.
Above, and below, the waterline
He will gasp for docked air in a cell.
His case rested,
On mirrored shards
He will see only a bald man.
Published 12th Oct 2022
Author's Note
ERULGCT 183. A reflection of Richard Allen’s 1970s books. Apologies for the stereotypes, but Allen revelled in them. And it aint pretty.
All writing remains the property of the author. Don't use it for any purpose without their permission.
likes 4
reading list entries 2
comments 6
reads 169
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The author encourages honest critique.
12th Oct 2022 9:57pm
I love this. The syntax is odd, but it suits the rather stream-of-consciousness flow. It’s a rather beautifully gritty and rainswept vision of concrete, germinated England. The riffs on Shakespeare and other British icons/iconic imagery gives it a timelessness that’s hard to create.
13th Oct 2022 10:27am
You're too kind Mr R. Knew you'd pick up the references. Enjoyed scribbling this, whilst Coronation Street played out in the background.
Been using Skinhead Girls as some kind of door stop and just dipped into a few pages. Forgot Allen was such a piss-poor writer. He wrote prolifically under many aliases (James Moffat he was).
Been using Skinhead Girls as some kind of door stop and just dipped into a few pages. Forgot Allen was such a piss-poor writer. He wrote prolifically under many aliases (James Moffat he was).
12th Oct 2022 11:15pm
read one back in the day, either skinhead or suede head, it doesn’t matter, I was fifteen or sixteen and it was all about the kids I was scared of in school. went back to reading westerns ..
expressive poem, though.
expressive poem, though.
13th Oct 2022 10:31am
Cheers Paul. Guess you encountered many 'Joe Hawkins' in your neck of the woods. Hateful people. I wonder what became of the teenage skinhead?
Anonymous
- Edited 12th Aug 2024 3:45am
12th Oct 2022 11:47pm
<< post removed >>
13th Oct 2022 10:34am
Many thanks Ted. Appreciated. You raise a good point. I try to steer away from too many specific UK references as it's an international site.
