Wow. Day Seventeen. More than halfway there. Below is my poem for the day; it's not really autobiographical (at least not completely).
The Day Seventeen prompt for PAD:
For today’s prompt, write a pop culture poem. I guess I broke out the Bon Jovi a day early, eh? But hey, write a poem about Bon Jovi or Van Halen; write a poem about the Kardashians (or don’t–and say you did); write a poem about a popular SNL skit; write a poem about Dr. Who or Downton Abbey; write a poem about any kind of popular culture thing-a-ma-bob you wish. In fact, write three! (Just kidding; you only need to write one poem–but seriously, write three and be sure to add a little more cowbell.)
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| These Are the Waves I Listen to Now |
Clubbing in the '80s
Mom and dad told
me to come inside
when city streetlights shined up the night.
Instead, I (Du)ran out into darkness
as strobe lights blinked on, stumbling
over 10,000 Maniacs and a Flock
of Seagulls rushing across the front lawn.
Those were the days, Driven to Tears
on My Own Secret Journey sprinting
from Police, then Walking Like an Egyptian
with Bangles dangling on both rigid wrists.
I passed Stray Cats strutting in alleys,
on sidewalks, and on teenaged car roofs,
and then cried Tears for Fear
of men after Tom petted my ego
and then turned aloof. I Squeezed self-
consciousness into black tights and big hair
daring to fit into a League beyond Human,
dressed to impress my Loverboy
constructed of a Simple Mind. Now I suppose
that was all right, nights forgotten across river Styx
after growing up attending Spandau Ballet,
left behind to become the nineteenth member
of the town’s secret Cult, praising charcoal-eyes
and forty-ouncers in hormonal back seats, still waiting
on Tom, too tiring for me, sucking his Red Hot
Chili Peppers, I snuck back inside
before morning came and Mom flipped
on my bedroom light.
when city streetlights shined up the night.
Instead, I (Du)ran out into darkness
as strobe lights blinked on, stumbling
over 10,000 Maniacs and a Flock
of Seagulls rushing across the front lawn.
Those were the days, Driven to Tears
on My Own Secret Journey sprinting
from Police, then Walking Like an Egyptian
with Bangles dangling on both rigid wrists.
I passed Stray Cats strutting in alleys,
on sidewalks, and on teenaged car roofs,
and then cried Tears for Fear
of men after Tom petted my ego
and then turned aloof. I Squeezed self-
consciousness into black tights and big hair
daring to fit into a League beyond Human,
dressed to impress my Loverboy
constructed of a Simple Mind. Now I suppose
that was all right, nights forgotten across river Styx
after growing up attending Spandau Ballet,
left behind to become the nineteenth member
of the town’s secret Cult, praising charcoal-eyes
and forty-ouncers in hormonal back seats, still waiting
on Tom, too tiring for me, sucking his Red Hot
Chili Peppers, I snuck back inside
before morning came and Mom flipped
on my bedroom light.
*****
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