Youth’s a time when magic bounces
through the heart, a heart that trounces
all things monochrome.
Life bubbles like foam
and you roam in flounces.
Youth’s a time to gaze in wonder,
youth’s a time to trip and blunder
through daft episodes,
daydreaming in codes
of exploding thunder.
Youth’s a time to lie in gutters
full of paralytic mutters
from obsession’s brew
in a pool of spew,
hooked on newfound flutters.
But at school, and beyond, I heard
nothing sweeter than “That’s my bird,”
“These trainers are Nike,”
“You’re sad, take a hike,”
and “He’s, like, such a nerd?”
They shuffle round in packs and say,
“I really, like, admired the way
you called him a twat
and puked in his hat?
Clever, that was. Touché.”
Is this dead rot all humankind
can offer me? When will I find
a heart that flows true
and carries me through
the damp zoo of the blind?
