I remember you in a black pencil skirt.

Sat with the boys, you loved to flirt.

We had a drunken kiss, at the leavers summer disco.

Some other boy, wannabe rebel rouser.

Marxist T Shirt and combat trousers.

Bought you a Clash record from the newly opened Tesco.

---

An art school girl with portfolio

Londons calling and you had to go.

With dreams of, an avant-garde existence.

But the poor mouth Bohemians, held a hold.

The Victorian squats were damp and cold.

Your talent waned the same as your respiratory resistance.

---

Years later I sat alone, at a Bernie Inn.

Steak and chips and you walked in.

Came over and asked for a vodka and black.

Said that you had once met, Spandau Ballet.

Culture Club and Frankie Valli.

Started crying and asked if I would take you back.

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But I can remember behind the 6th form college.

You dragged Che Guevara into the dark green foliage.

Fumbling with his fashionable, boxer shorts.

His baseball boots, searching for purchase.

You saw me there but couldn’t care less.

So I hope you don’t mind if I express my thoughts.

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You broke me heart, art for heart ache.

Teenage angst and the consequences that they make.

I’m going to erase these feint grey pencil marks.

Use the brush to paint your canvas.

A surreal face of unconscious sadness.

Defying logic from your minds deepest thoughts.

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