Confessions of a Punk Rock Vocalist

I stared the crowd down squinty,
always squinty,
a jaw tooth grinding, neck vein
throbbing squinty.

I fisted the mike like a baseball
and spit the windscreen drenched
with naive codified lyric.

They took it all in.

The blender chewed them
to a fine puree of sweat,
bodies and stomped glasses.

And I eyed them squinty,
angry less at Reagan,
angry less at their sheepish
individuality, less
at proliferation or the grim
disparities of class or color - 

more so at the soap
in my hair that gave me spine
and drooled stinging into my eyes.

◄ Creeks Run Louder After Sunset

The Lost Ways of a Low Layin' Islan' ►


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Devon Brock

Wed 24th Jul 2019 22:27

Thanks for the comments and likes everybody.

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Mae Foreman

Wed 24th Jul 2019 12:14

One of the most elaborate poems of your I've read! Tough writin' indeed! Great work! 🎈

jennifer Malden

Wed 24th Jul 2019 10:32

Love this one - especially the first line- really tough writing!


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Lisa C Bassignani

Wed 24th Jul 2019 01:44

Love this Devon!
I'm a punk rock girl through and through

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Don Matthews

Wed 24th Jul 2019 00:40

Punk rock anger
Soap? so
Mirth removes it
Hope so.....

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Devon Brock

Wed 24th Jul 2019 00:19

Haha, Don, happy for your mirth,
as such the punk rock anger
is soap, for what it's worth.


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Don Matthews

Wed 24th Jul 2019 00:12

You shoulda washed it out silly punky
Your mama didn't train you in this?
Cos soap has a little nasty habit
If left in of giving you the piss......

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