[a rock opera poem in 3 parts]

The Hungry Years: 1

Getting Ready

Getting ready to go
It takes two hours just to crimp my hair,
To ease the thigh-length boots on, smooth and slow,
With a leather skirt that's barely there.

Getting ready to dance
I can hear the music in my head
Catch the mirror's smoky kohl-rimmed glance,
Feel the rhythm stomp with boots of lead.

Getting ready to burst
Once-heavy heart is clamouring to speed
Almost ready now, I burn, I thirst
A distant roar of thunder fuels my need

Getting ready to rock
I can feel the tides of waving hair
We're driving fast against the racing clock
We turn another corner - and we're there.



The Hungry Years: 2

Hungry Years Nights

Pounding hard rock
my sister's face through haloes of smoke
shows her undisguised mirth at the antics
on the dance floor, as
rainbow amoebas of light pass over the walls and
head-banging heads
in the frenzy of flying hair

She's making faces over Tom's shoulder
as he smiles, unaware
she's making her cigarette packet dance across the table
she points out all the tarty women,
Nods to the beat,
wisecracking, smoking,
swigging Newcastle Brown.

Punks stand sentry around the walls, like
misplaced cockatiels
preening moussed spikes, adjusting facial rings.
A large biker thumps his fist on the bar to the music,
grinning like a child.
One of the tarts trips on her heels.
We all laugh.

The vision fades. Back in the present,
I begin to read Beth's email from America, slowly,
trying to make it last.
She is happy
but she misses us.
We miss her too.



The Hungry Years 3:

Closure

Why not take my arms too,
My legs; why not cut me,
Kill my friends,
Black out my eyes?

What the hell is it about,
All this change for no reason,
The unbroken being fixed anyway,
The unthinkable happening,
The closing-down, shutting up,
finality of it all?

Now we force ourselves out to local pubs
Or the working mens' club,
Watching grannies dance with children,
Aunties with uncles,
We breathe their cigarette smoke,
Suffering others just to enjoy each other.

So I dream of The Hungry Years, in Brighton,
And wonder why it ever had to close.