Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Norwich, Mid90s: grunge was washedup,
the altrock baton passed to Britpop.

Major junta jackspratted on last gasps,
******* diet strict as Mars.

There was this flat (we called it 'The Flat'),
which shanty comp 70s-stranded by Thatch

-er lost several dipsomanic 6thformers to.
We mistook slurring for sibilance of cool.

Endangered National Handbag paid the rent
for teenage mutant nightmare tenants.

2's company, 14's a crowd,
but 2 schoolleavers had 12 mates pileround.

3.23pm, my limerent object arrived
in clanky clatter of gaybasketed bike.

Strawbripe, barelylegal designer baggirl
set my protoincel neurals a-gambol.

1/2 Finnish; sphinxy,ditzy, boho gimma.
Sly & scatty, her moniker Marika.

Freshwater tinseltown scintilleyes green.
French negatitties, pixielean.

Henna'd hair l/ wickered wine, was it her
'lightreflectingboostertechnology' conditioner?

How I wanted to **** her ingenue face
l/ a nirmal, holierthanherbal vape

(a smokefree snowflake anachronism
- demeritgoods, consumers risked 'em

more in the 90s). Calumeting Marlboro Lites,
our lungs were younger than our nights.

We were both kooky bodgers, artprodgers;
on cropped jeanjacket's back she embroidered

daisies. Hippyskirt; swisscheesed sweater: her chic,
bubblegrunge. What boosted Nordically feerique

aura was jiggyless iciness re me, who had to get
toodrunktospeak to speak to her, wolf drugs to misinterpret

frigid emeralds scintilleyes' looks
over paraphernalia tables, daisydoodled schoolbooks.

Yet my limerent project & I still had a connection,
my filtering fixation such that even

this selfdescription didn't jade our arty amity:
she a 'lovechild of Sweet Valley High & the Prodigy'!

I, title of the 1-hit-wonder by Wheatus.
She, intoxicatingly naff petitbourgeois priestess.

Arcades ambo, but no Roger & Monica,
peripheral scuzzbard was I to Marika.

My odeballs couldn't humect the friendzone.
Still, homelier than my brokenhome.


2

Madboy tracking solace to a posh squat,
well, posh to a point: red tap ran hot.

Mad boys meeting at exclusive dive
to tope tarantulajuice & **** hotknives.

Or snort les neiges d'antan,
Blizzards of Nozz l/ noo tamarah.

Talcum simulacrums up our schnozzies
(whuzz billy once, but cut l/ Whitehall prozzies).

Tonsillitis torpedoes of Thai grass, mentalated
cigarettes. Or on soapbar sedated, superjaded.

Tripping on Blickling shrooms grit tea.
Young lungs sang, limbs yinged geometry

whilst Roxy Rongwroom, our resident axeman
fingerbanged his Satyrcaster crisp as a catscan,

replinkating Radiohead & the Roses.
I aimed oeillades at a Finglish vogueress,

Finglish backfisch. Bicyclemonarch of my heart,
whose gaybasketed pigeon streethawk's ballpark

resalevalue could stake a hand of Scabby Queen
(E.T.'s dodo claimed by the one w/ knuckles haem-

iferous). But amphibious suns, scintilleyes green
had scintilleyes for precocious partymachine

other than I. Before she soured 17,
rival Flat Packers pawed her pixielean

pert friedeggs outta cups o' Topshop nylace.
Venus twagged our starcharts (O zodiache!),

yet her callipygian frontallobes I got
t'Platonically frot as I joypopped

& jorummed & carpenoctemmed,
young&dumbed & caromed l/ a bottle kite to the bottom

of the class (of '97), an 'F' for selfpreservation.
I was the winner, my own worst. Our eviction

my selfharmageddon bloodbath's aftermath.
Did I need a bath after? You do the blood math.

Was Giroday mixology to blame, cumulative
gilravage? Or slower khaosmosis of an abusive

homelife? I lost it same night the paps killed Di,
but I was in theatre when anchors went dewyeyed,

so out-emoting Blair was no cute excuse.
Maybe I just couldn't handle my tarantulajuice.

Or was loss of my dignity, sanity, figurative ****,
literal blood a disinhibited fit

of anterotic pique? Hell hath no fury
l/ starved barmy ardour, undiagnosed BPD.

But Children of the Corn coroners
took down my Weetabix crucifix particulars

years ago; my membrumvirile verges on marcescent.
Hormonally leavening/ haunting to the teenpoet  

juve me, but 1st cardiocracker was more brainwaif
than Pandora Louise Elizabeth

in cold light of recency bias 'Eureka'.
Coz decadeslater I don't know what I saw in Marika.

I have brothers to love me l/ a brother.
That sweet 16 solipsister was just another

90s indie hippychick. If I had another chance,
I'd be 1 of the coolkids, Love's Insouciants,

not a farouche velcroid for Marika.
I'd toy w/ her l/  this hindsighted heckler, nostaljoker.

& not lose my cool l/  madboy who'd never seen
a fangast fit-as Finglish indiechick,
pixielean.

— The End —