Thursday, 14 July 2011

The 80s

Duran Duran
were hungry like the worm,
their eternal squirm
a squelching in my ears.

Tears for Fears,
the eighties peel
away, old wallpaper
not pasted sufficiently.

Come on down to
the Waterfront
to drown yourself
or drink to your health.

And maybe you'll see
the iron skull
of Mrs Thatcher
glaring back at yer,

the sea the colour
of bad money,
slowly bruising grey
under a perfect sun.


  1. *raises fist*

    Down with Thatcher.

  2. Though I will say, I very much enjoyed it. I was a bit iffy with the last stanza, but upon rereading it worked a lot better. So, as is really.

    And this is why I'm terrible at critiquing poetry.