Tag Archives: Teething Wells

All The Skinhead Girls I Ever Went Out With

All the Skinhead Girls I Ever Went Out With

Were tougher
than me,
had to be.
Most could shut
a pub to silence.
All could talk
‘til the Monopoly
boot came home.
The blue of
Levi jackets
and jeans
echoed
india ink
tattoos.
Their eyes
the same green
as the liquor
gracing their
double double.
On Saturday night
I heard ‘Ali Baba’
and I wanted
my dream last
night last night.
Her monkey boots
scraping my shin,
the stick
of cinema carpet
as the adverts
finish
and the action begins.

Tim Wells

Advertisements

Like Spoons No More

Like Spoons No More

She came from
Waaaaakefield,
and pronounced
it like she was
half-asleep.
Having heard
me and mine
excited
so often over
pie and mash
she said she’d
cook some.
She served
the pie
crust side up,
smothered
in gravy,
and gave me
a knife and fork.
In truth,
it did nause me.
I ate
with a spoon
and scraped
the dish
‘til it sang.
Cos every meal,
every day,
every body,
with love
is sauce…
innit?

Tim Wells

Allocated Anarchy

This is a Teething Wells poem I used to gig with back in the 80s. It was in the second issue of Stand Up and Spit zine that came out in 1984. The zine was mostly cut outs of posh people from Tatler with ‘scum bag’ and the like written onto them.

On BBC another family dies.
On ITV they win the dustbin not the prize.
Subversive show that’s really funny
while the boss is in his office
counting out his money.
On once a week, that’s really free,
on for half an hour, allocated anarchy.
An in-depth report on what you didn’t
want to know.
But only half truth is told on this TV show.
Smiling presenter shows you what to do,
cos left on your own you wouldn’t have a clue.
Fucking your life is easy meat,
when front page of the papers is Coronation Street.

Teething Wells

Teenage Warning

Teenage Warning

Summer,
sweet, and sticky.
Three floors up
no nearer to G-d
but perhaps
closer to heaven.
The off season,
short sleeves,
long discomix days
with version.
Looking out the
window
at a rusting
Ford Anglia
she laughed.
It was going nowhere,
neither were we.
In nothing
but a black t-shirt,
she laughed.
Across her chest
white letters
bold in a circle:
Who killed Liddle
Angelic Upstarts.

Tim Wells

The Trimfit

The Trimfit

Once her bedsit curtains are pulled
she unbuttons her shirt with study.
Carefully and precisely it’s placed
on the back of a chair. The knickers
receive attention, but less.
Her tongue wraps itself around mine.
I am left crumpled, thrown, and a mess.

Tim Wells

No Pop No Style

No Pop No Style

Through her teeth, she whistled.
In the alley up Cazenove Road
she lifted her skirt, pulled down
blue, white trimmed, knickers
and let it all go. Between her legs
gold, the hopes and dreams
neither of us would ever cash,
ran away into the midnight.
None too gentle, the fine spray
caught the sheen of her brogue.
She whistled ‘Uptown Top Ranking’.
Through her teeth, she whistled.

Tim Wells

Wreck A Buddy

Wreck A Buddy

The green gold tonik reached mid thigh,
her legs went far further.
Nurse’s shoe, she’ll take care of you
or your going ‘ome in a fuckin’ ambulance.
The jacket sported a ticket pocket
for every heart she’d toyed.
At her breast a pocket square,
pinned and red as my beating heart.
Rolling her shoulders to reggae
she was all a shimmer and I a mess.
The cut alone sang different class.
The light fell through the pub window
caught the curve of her fundament
and the sun shone from her arse.

Tim Wells