Thursday, June 16, 2011

Chickenshit Conformist

Sidney left his spine at a punk rock gig
In a 1980s basement tavern
His fist in the air, or during that stage dive pause
Mid-air, before landing on outstretched palms and spiked heads.

Sidney left his spine at a punk rock gig
By night, entrusting his fight to hard core chords and ramming speed beats, bouncing off sweaty shoulders like a pinball

But by day, he moved like a teddy bear, shuffling to his employment where he fulfilled his role well as beige stuffing for a cubicle

Sidney wore his Nobody Likes a Thinker shirt to bed and brown cardigans to work
At home, he pounded his head to Bad Religion LPs,
In the office he nodded, so meek and eager to please the boss
Oi oi oi! fist-punching the air by night
Became yes sir data punching by daylight

When Nickelbak Steve bullied the office floor into a shark tank,
Sidney shook in a locked toilet stall, holding the tooth that was elbowed free when skin heads crashed that Hard Ons gig in the CBD clenching the tooth in his fist until the enameled tip bit.

Sidney left his spine at a punk rock gig
To fill the gap, he slowly fled to drink
He drank at home to Black Flag and DOA
If he drank enough he’d go out, become corner fluff in some bar or club.

Until last Friday,
When Sidney was tossed from Mooseheads for shouting ‘Chickenshit Conformist’ at 30 seconds from Mars on the flat screen TV,
‘Chickenshit Conformist’, his face so close his spit sprayed on his own reflection, over the fake Mohawks and eyeliner.

Ten minutes later, he was glassed in Shooters by a guy in white canvas shoes and an Ed Hardy tee.

Sidney left his spine at a punk rock gig,
But the ambos couldn’t silence him and didn’t understand him, his split cheek flapping torn like a ripped tartan sleeve
As he screamed for Nancy.

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