The summer of 1979

 

summer, 1979
punk rock was booming,
bringing pseudo-anarchy to the UK
giving us spitting in the street
laced DMs and black PVC
a new ripped-jeans generation
lolled by the road, smoking rollies
swearing and hoping someone would notice.

greetings were a sneer or a two-fingered salute,
the rich said they were skint, and dressed with care, to suit
joining ragged queues to prove their identity
playing follow-the-leader, proclaiming on live TV
we’re
not
sheep
and waggling their sharp mohicans to show they agree

but the music
it rang in my ears
at local gigs we’d hear songs
bursting with rage against the system
written by those too young to know the difference
and having too much fun to take an interest
yelling hurriedly-scribbled lyrics
only to be drowned out by screaming electrical feedback
from cheap guitars
sweat dripping, we’d pogo in the mosh pit
buzzing, bumping, spilling beer,
never wanting the night to finish

some summer evenings
our band-member friends would visit
we’d sit on the floor drinking coffee
smoking cigarettes
and making jokey plans for revolution

it would begin in the park and end in time for tea
deep down we all wished our plans were real
and we were waiting for a signal

seeing how successive governments
have damaged this land
it might have been a good idea
but I’m still waiting

The Daily Post #Waiting

©Jane Paterson Basil

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