An elbow jabbed her face I’m not sure
it was accidental. The band were all girls,
the crowd lust. She grabbed his shirt collar,
punched once, twice, ‘til he dropped.
Then danced a dance all her own.
Two kicks to the ribs then the sole
of her boot to his face. Citizen O’Brien
would’ve been proud. At the bar
she showed me the gap in her smile
where the tooth’d been knocked free.
“How do I look?” she asked. “I love it,” I said.
Blood she spat, “Nobody’s ever loved me yet.”
This feast of Victorian variety was a staple of 70s TV and a great place to pick up stagecraft from some quality turns of the day. It certainly did Porky the Poet and myself no harm.
Here’s Wilfred Pickles reciting some poetry from July, 1973.
All the Skinhead Girls I Ever Went Out With
had to be.
Most could shut
a pub to silence.
All could talk
‘til the Monopoly
boot came home.
The blue of
the same green
as the liquor
On Saturday night
I heard ‘Ali Baba’
and I wanted
my dream last
night last night.
Her monkey boots
scraping my shin,
of cinema carpet
as the adverts
and the action begins.
Like Spoons No More
She came from
it like she was
me and mine
so often over
pie and mash
she said she’d
crust side up,
and gave me
a knife and fork.
it did nause me.
with a spoon
‘til it sang.
Cos every meal,
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.
sweet, and sticky.
Three floors up
no nearer to G-d
closer to heaven.
The off season,
long discomix days
Looking out the
at a rusting
It was going nowhere,
neither were we.
but a black t-shirt,
Across her chest
bold in a circle:
Who killed Liddle
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.