Running London

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Drink motherfucker
Drink motherfucker
Drink motherfucker, drink.
I’m drinkin’.
My brother’s drinkin’.
You’re drinkin’.
It’s Christmas time in London and
we’re all drinkin’, punk—

Spike hair anarchistic freak of the people
who are you trying to fool
sitting with your rough hewed bunch of punks
under the statue of Eros
love stoned free and frisky
in Picadilly circus
you tease and demand tourist attention.

But woe be the tourist cameraman from Manchester
just attempting to capture some of your rebellious color on video
not ready to offer up your demanded ‘5 pound compensation’
quick to retort on the freedoms of his country
‘I can film here, England’s a free country’
or simply cry for bobbie protection,
‘Police, help, Police.’

Both fruitless attempts to rebuff your
slaps and jabs for his camera
and pure punk anger.
Finally as your punk comrades converge,
he outwits you with a ‘Who are they?’
and before you can spit and say, ‘My . . .’
He escapes into tourist crowd anonymity.

Now, you want a fight,
Mr. Punk of the light blue hair.
You need a fight, Mr Punk,
for lifestyle verification—non-occupational justification.
Yes, you feel you’ve been wronged, again.
Society has given you the big metal shaft—
the short end of nothing but hassle
and you wear it raw.

You rebel
you punk and scoff
drink and fight
and fuck your punk girlfriend in the park
both fucked up on cheap canned lager
careful only that your piercings don’t catch on one and other
careful as you can be
careful punk
careful.

I sit to the side of all this
soaking in your discarded bitterness.
My brother snapping a quick shot
with my cheap ass camera—
me casual cool foreigner in the foreground
you there fuming about in the back—

five punks
three Mohawks
one dog—

You don’t notice one green jeaned American;
You don’t notice his little brother fininshin’ the Guinness;
You don’t notice the waves of canned confrontation floodin’ in
Johnny Rotten riots ragin in
a mosh pit regression
a stout fire within
to fuck with you too punk
and maybe it’s just the beer talking,
but your shit’s pissin’ me off

‘Fuck you Punks!’, I said that out loud?
‘Yeah, Fuck you!’, my bother chimes in.

And we are running.
Running
chased by your drunken booted defiant punk legs
through the crowded Picadilly traffic.

Running, taunting,
‘Poor punks’—‘cause I think it sounds cool.
‘Poor punks’—maddening you more.
‘Poor punks’—dodging a car or two.
Running.

Running and diving, my brother first,
into McDonalds for sanctuary.

Poor pierced punk
Poor drunken punks
Poor little punk dog
leering through the fast food glass.

I thank Big Mac and Converse
I am on the inside
and you’re
out.