Our Poem of the Week is ‘Scooter Club and the Lost Boys’ by Beno
Beno describes himself as 'very new to reading and writing poetry'. His poem Scooter Club and the Lost Boys is still our poem of the week, though! It's a piece which pulses with energy. Read it and you'll see how he uses the narrator's voice to paint a vivid picture of a vanished youth. (note: it may not be for those who don't like strong language).
Below are Beno's responses to our Q&A. We hope you enjoy those every bit as much as his poem.
How long have you been writing poetry and what was your initial influence for doing so?
I've been writing for 18 months. I’ve read out my stuff to the girls at work and once at a poetry night.
Is there a particular style of poetry that you enjoy writing more than others, if so why?
I don't have a style yet. But I like writing poetry for girls. The more romantic, the better.
Have you ever performed your work, if so any advice for those still to do so?
I plan to read a poem at the poetry night in Wigtown in Scotland in January, and at the everyman in Liverpool in January also. I like JMH best but wolfgare told me to read Seamus Heaney, so i bought one of his books and I like him a lot, he's boss. I also like sir Walter Raleigh's stuff, he was a proper dude! Christopher Marlow was pretty cool as well. And Shelley.
If you could only have one poetry book which one would it be?
The book is just called poems by Gerard Manley Hopkins. I used to work with a Jesuit priest turned nurse who love GMH and recommended him to me. I wonder if he still alive and reading wolf. He would be Uber proud of me. Sir Philip Sidney. He's proper good.
Which four persons, living or dead would you like to share your last meal with?
I would like my last meal to be with, my mum, my dad, my girlfriend, my best friend.
Scooter Club and the Lost Boys
It’s fucking mayhem at the local social, The music’s loud, the punters vocal.
Ten pints, pissed, a toke and toot. Lammy, Vep, which tribe of scoot?
Bondage kecks, and ripped up shirts, two-tone trousers, mini-skirts.
Stay pressed mods in classic Clarke’s, mad on speed, and purple hearts.
Purdy cuts, the Mary Quant, “a Chelsea cut, that’s what you want”.
Flat top, Slant top, full on skin, quiffed DA to Mohican.
The music’s sound, it’s off the scale, four decades back, the tales regale.
A modern world of suburb sounds, borstal breakouts, underground,
Hong Kong garden, united kids, into the valley, by The Skids,
Suspect Device, Complete Control, a hundred thousand copies sold.
Coloured vinyl placed on decks, by latex punk in x-ray spexs,
Spiral scratch on spinning discs, reflect the heads of those who’re pissed.
Talcum floors for soulers dancing, suited rude boys, killer skanking.
We’re off our heads us aging youths, with blood and sweat that’s hundred proof
With shit filled lungs and clogged up hearts, and cholesterol that’s off the chart,
We pogo, ruck and wreck the room, disgraceful sons of baby boom.
The world outside has travelled on, no angry youths spout sedition,
Just snowflake armies lie and melt. Control, delete, with button alt.
God saved the Queen, and London stands, the rebels driven from the land.
The concrete jungle’s fallen down, the tube is safe, in my ghost-town.
And Maggie’s dead, the fucking bitch, and London’s full of nouveau riche.
Do I give a fuck? I fuckin’ don’t, I doin’ coke and I don’t vote.
Fuck the left, and fuck the right, fuck it all, its fucking shite.
The boys and I don’t give a toss, so suck our dicks, and just fuck off!