Sunday, 14 June 2015

Poem written after listening to 'Coming Up' – the third album by Suede and some other songs by Suede

A half-empty packet
of smoky bacon
flavoured crisps
flutters from the window
of a high rise block of flats,
raining greasy crumbs
of fried potato
over Suede world,
where the pigs don't fly

And where a man called Terry,
silhouetted in soft focus
behind flimsy 
flesh-coloured curtains,
sits alone in his one-bedroom flat,
naked but for a
synthetic feather boa
purchased from the Pound Shop,
eating cold Happy Shopper
baked beans
straight from the tin.

Down in the forecourt
Jane sells the Ford Focus
where her boyfriend died
on the back seat
from auto-erotic asphyxiation
after wrapping himself
in cellophane that
he purchased from
an all-night garage
beside a motorway
in Suede World,
where everyone is frankly
a bit tired and sore
from all the rough sex
they are having,
and the street drugs
they are constantly taking,
and the looming threat of
impending nuclear war,
that weighs heavy
on their minds
like a Monday morning hangover
from the early 1980s.

Far away
in leafy North London
Brett Anderson
stands before his Argos
flat-pack wardrobe,
selects from the rail
the shirt with the most
man-made fibres,
pulls it on
but leaves it half-unbuttoned,
steps out into the feral darkness
of Hampstead. 

1 comment:

  1. fantastic!
    All their lyrics in one handy bitesize chunk