Poetry

My Pocket Crumbs by Jack Stacey

I hoped my first time drinking

I’d still taste Cherryade.

 

At 14, I had a beer,

something from a dark bottle –

tasted an early sip of hell.

 

At 16, I had a sip of vodka and coke,

got it down me like it was mother curing

my ailments with Cowpol.

 

I had medicated my personality 

for the ensuing moments, hours.

More excited 

than a hairdryer seeing wet:

 

I whipped cigarettes from strangers hands,

skimmed gravel across that idiot moon,

warnings from a bouncer

about my sex-provoking dance moves.

 

Mother once pointed at that great lump of dust in the sky 

amongst that right load of graffiti called the solar system,

sits there until someone says otherwise.

She said to me ‘isn’t it beautiful?’

I’d sooner decipher initials left on trees.


 Follow Jack on Twitter at @jstacey32

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