teenage wanker

the stomping triplesoul brothelcreeper of summer and
the toobig leatherjacket armour,
the idiot hair spiked and dyed
black as intentions when
I lied
as to why
you mustn't come among
us,
or the
yellow-dry chirruping provençal hills of
pitchblack twisty night-roads to
tinny village square discos,
sweltering red tents,
and the itchytwitchy
pro-plus-pepsi trainride south.

really shamefully,
you were de-invited by my
wanker's weak fear
of the snide smiles of unfriends
whose names I now don't remember,
who'd mocked
your sharp nose, big legs, and bigger
wounded, beautiful
and generous heart.

and to repay you
that way
after learning first the rich, round taste of girl flesh
in your patchouli-scented bed
while the pogues shouted,
while your sister went mad and
your dad went cold

and your stupid little dog
sniffed the joy
from my arsehole
those times we fucked hilariously
in the cool orchards
and waving rapeseed
of home.