Poem for Becky



A couple of years ago I pulled this girl in Rififi in Stalybridge. She wasn’t that special, and she just kind of pounced on me near the bar. I swapped numbers with her and added her on Facebook, but by the time we were chatting I couldn’t remember a great deal about her and her pictures weren’t jogging my memory particularly. She wasn’t that bad looking, but she wasn’t that good either.


I told her I was sending some writing to magazines. She asked me to write her a poem. What kind of poem? I asked. She said, Surprise me. The poem must include:


Zoo, Skittles, Knickers, Heart.


I banged this out in a few minutes.



When I first met her I thought she was sweet

then when she kissed me my heart missed a beat

lips like candy, sweeter than skittles,

arse so tight, tits like missiles

little bit shy but I’m naïve, mind you,

for all I know, she mighta posed for zoo

now we’re texting and the plot gets thicker…

And I’m determined to get her out of those knickers.


Despite this smutty declaration, she was still interested. So I went out to meet her. She was with her friends one Friday night in 5th Avenue, an indie club dive. You’d see people emerge from there at 2am with their shoes (and ankles, if they were female) plastered in some kind of black tar, a combination of various sources of dirt- an uncleaned floor, unclean people and copius amounts of fluids that had been spilled from plastic cups. The place was disgusting, and it always has been. Added to this, I fucking hate indie music. And I pin a lot of belief on people being compatable due to their music beliefs.


So, I thought, if this is where she chooses to go, I just know it isn’t going to work out.


And it didn’t. I stayed for an hour or so, but the atmosphere grated on me so I bailed on her. I texted her to say I think we’d better leave it. She agreed.

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