(copyright Caroline Collyer 2002)
you squealed indignantly.
Of course not.
Blacker than a bat
out of hell.
Gleaming with an aura darker
than polished opal.
I believe you.
I remember the days
of Backstreet Boys
and the Spice Girls.
Nirvana and Ozzy Osbourne
were no more than a remote flicker
in a fire burning worlds away.
People change.
That first glimmer of goth
emerged the first day
you exclaimed "JJ72".
A craving more compelling
than any conventional street crack.
The whirlwind's haunting fingers gripped you close
and would never let you go.
We chained ourselves to the
powerful roots of pop.
Resistance was futile.
We struggled for you.
Ripped, tore at you
with all our strength
until our muscles
split from their bones
and it was no good.
The first band.
We listened.
Did we listen.
Your band became ours.
Until it asserted itself.
This town's too big for both of us.
Still we tried.
Lactic acid leaking as our empty arms
grew weak
and finally lost their grip
burnt, red raw
with nothing to show for it
Except memories.
And maybe
some day at the
High School Reunion
We'll get you back.
Or maybe not.
Maybe you'll be dead by then.