3/24/2016 0 Comments Two poems by T. J. DennettSitting On Your Boyfriend's Shoulders, Glastonbury 2009 Illuminated by geometric redesigns of Darth Vader's helmet, four men, walking on water, plug electric guitars into amps, fiddle with mics, stare at the moon, daring her to disappear during the next two hours, and return. Returning to sing requiems of their younger selves. Cool Britannia is reborn in horn-rimmed glasses; every beat a thunderstorm. Giant flags make elves of their possessors, warrior paint adorns their eyes. Smash Hits posters are brought to life in pop leisure facilities. Keys bounce. The singer spits words to enthralled masses. The bassist riffs a line that's nearly old enough to vote whilst a cigarette dangles from his lips; rewinding the tape to champagne and coke binges, dirty syringes and wisps of white smoke. The guitarist plucks out a nursery rhyme motif; the crowd watch on in silent awe as he sings, his voice cracking like a wine glass being dropped upon the kitchen floor, before song swells to a lion's roar and the lead vocalist, alone under broken moonlight, watches the colours blur in the crowd as they echo hunger in his lyrics. Love is the greatest thing, brother. Here they are now, in Fred Perry polo-necks, graffiti t-shirts and dark, skinny jeans. Fills tumble like acrobats, retro sets and discordant chords bring orgasmic screams from middle-aged parents, clinging to dreams of their youth; stories to tell their daughter when she's old enough to know what it means; and here you are, sitting on your lover's shoulders, holding on for tomorrow, forever. Debbie Harry I was sixteen years old. She? Pushing sixty, but she looked closer; with her bright, bottle-green eyes gazing out from the middle of my bedroom posters. I had teenage dreams, fantasies of her stepping out from photographs in nothing but a black bra, with matching mascara whilst blowing bubble-gum for the camera. From that scene, she's been my only mantra. You know the video for 'Heart of Glass'? Where she stares directly into your eyes, oozing self-confidence, effortless cool, whilst the band fuck about with disco balls? I'm in the phone booth, up against the wall; singing along from verse through to chorus. Love Debbie Harry. Forever gorgeous. I watch clips and snippets of videos; feed my habit with doses of new-wave and punk-rock, repeats of 'Top of the Pops' or the 'Old Grey Whistle Test' on YouTube. Most wannabe punks worship Sid Vicious, Siouxsie Sioux, Paul Weller or Joe Strummer. Not me. I wanna be Blondie's drummer, and watch her from the best seat in the house. I bought a Barbie doll for my eighteenth birthday, dressed her up in a white slip dress, eyeliner and dyed her hair two-tone blonde. I've always thought Atomic would be a great name for a new line of hair products. Commercial tag: Your hair is beautiful. My girlfriend thought I'd gone fucking mental, she couldn't understand why I wanted a “junkie with wrinkles”, especially when I bought her the same outfits from Ebay, and asked her to dress like her, act like her, be her. I must've heard her voice a thousand times, from 'Plastic Letters' to 'Parallel Lines'; lusting over images of Debbie in the Seventies, on doctor's orders. Still Debbie Harry. Still bloody gorgeous. About the author: T. J. Dennett was born and raised in Northamptonshire. He has been writing poetry since he was seventeen, and has been published both in print and online.
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