Punk’s gobby charm largely passed me by,
lost in a chasm between disco and metal.
I’ll admit to a headbanger award at Dreamland,
(a 50’s frock in a sea of denim), split ends thrashing
to Mötorhead’s Overkill; yet, still too shy
to compete as a disco champ, unlike Emin.
And while I flitted between the pages of Sounds,
you were NME. I shouldn’t sneer; we got together
to Smash It Up, never to be DLT’s kind of couple.
And while I loved the women’s spikes and chains,
who could afford ‘Sex’ on the Kings Road?
And I saw Rotten once with PIL (so much better
than the Pistols) he walked off after 20 minutes.
I disliked him then and now. This is heresy to you,
with your three pairs of bondage trousers,
your home-stencilled Combat shirts –
I knew no one like you in Margate. And now,
Reid’s pins hold a number to a marathon vest,
punters paying to advertise two companies
for 3 hours, 39 minutes. Today, you’ll thread
a safety pin through your lapel. And while I dance
to Sister Sledge, I’ll loosen my hair for the Sabbath.
Katrina Naomi 11 May 2012