deepundergroundpoetry.com
1995
1995
the year
I felt alive
Heat wave,
slave to the wage
Bitter battles
and raging hormones
Walking to work for miles
Trying dodgy hair styles,
Setting the crappy VCR.
to record every episode of x-files.
Visa waiver
the rise of new labour.
Tony Blair and the cool Britannia
Trying to create a new utopia
instead of permanent psychosis and catatonia.
weston's still racist
the girlfriend still evasive
blur vs. oasis a battle for the ages
The rise of indie
the birth of Britpop
Ice cold showers and lollypops
Failing a driving test
I tried my very best
Unnatural selection,
building a large record collection
Fear of the future,
inability to see,
hair like curtains,
and attempting to live for free
A catalogue of un-realised idea
an archive of future hopes and fears
A change of season,
the end of summer never,
getting ill for a week
the worst cold ever.
Signed on the dole
every 2 weeks
on a Thursday at noon,
no more eating pot noodles
with a silver spoon.
All in all my favourite year,
a year I hold very dear,
Take the punch and take a dive
In the year of our lord
19 hundred and ninety five.
Note - The final lost poem from the notebook
the year
I felt alive
Heat wave,
slave to the wage
Bitter battles
and raging hormones
Walking to work for miles
Trying dodgy hair styles,
Setting the crappy VCR.
to record every episode of x-files.
Visa waiver
the rise of new labour.
Tony Blair and the cool Britannia
Trying to create a new utopia
instead of permanent psychosis and catatonia.
weston's still racist
the girlfriend still evasive
blur vs. oasis a battle for the ages
The rise of indie
the birth of Britpop
Ice cold showers and lollypops
Failing a driving test
I tried my very best
Unnatural selection,
building a large record collection
Fear of the future,
inability to see,
hair like curtains,
and attempting to live for free
A catalogue of un-realised idea
an archive of future hopes and fears
A change of season,
the end of summer never,
getting ill for a week
the worst cold ever.
Signed on the dole
every 2 weeks
on a Thursday at noon,
no more eating pot noodles
with a silver spoon.
All in all my favourite year,
a year I hold very dear,
Take the punch and take a dive
In the year of our lord
19 hundred and ninety five.
Note - The final lost poem from the notebook
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