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Hello! What's all this here? A kitschy vase
Hello! What's all this here? A kitschy vase some Shirley Temple manqué has knocked out delineating tales of kids in cars on crap estates, the Burberry clad louts who flail their motors through the smoky night from Manchester to Motherwell or Slough, creating bedlam on the Queen's highway. Your gaudy evocation can, somehow, conjure the scene without inducing fright, as would a Daily Express exposé,
can bring to mind the throaty turbo roar of hatchbacks tuned almost to breaking point, the joyful throb of UK garage or of house imported from the continent and yet educe a sense of peace, of calm - the screech of tyres and the nervous squeals of girls, too young to quite appreciate the peril they are in, are heard, but these wheels will not lose traction, skid and flip, no harm befall these children. They will stay out late
forever, pumped on youth and ecstasy, on alloy, bass and arrogance, and speed the back lanes, the urban gyratory, the wide motorways, never having need to race back home, for work next day, to bed. Each girl is buff, each geezer toned and strong, charged with pulsing juice which, even yet, fills every pair of Calvin’s and each thong, never to be deflated, given head in crude games of chlamydia roulette.
Now see who comes to line the sparse grass verge, to toast them in Buckfast and Diamond White: rat-boys and corn-rowed cheerleaders who urge them on to pull more burn-outs or to write their donut Os, as signature, upon the bleached tarmac of dead suburban streets. There dogs set up a row and curtains twitch as pensioners and parents telephone the cops to plead for quiet, sue for peace - tranquility, though, is for the rich.
And so, millennia hence, you garish crock, when all context is lost, galleries razed to level dust and we're long in the box, will future poets look on you amazed, speculate how children might have lived when you were fired, lives so free and bountiful and there, beneath a sun a little colder, declare How happy were those creatures then, who knew the truth was all negotiable and beauty in the gift of the beholder.
Hello! What's all this here? A tacky vase some fake Shirley Temple has made showing stories of kids in cars on poor estates, the Burberry-wearing troublemakers who drive their cars wildly through the smoky night from Manchester to Motherwell or Slough, causing chaos on the Queen's highway. Your flashy depiction can, somehow, show the scene without causing fear, like a Daily Express exposé would,
can remind us of the loud turbo sound of hatchbacks tuned almost to breaking point, the joyful beat of UK garage or of house music from Europe and yet create a sense of peace, of calm - the screech of tires and the nervous screams of girls, too young to fully understand the danger they are in, are heard, but these cars will not lose control, skid and flip, no harm will come to these children. They will stay out late
forever, energized by youth and excitement, on alloy wheels, bass and arrogance, and speed through the back roads, the urban roundabouts, the wide motorways, never needing to rush back home, for work the next day, to bed. Each girl is attractive, each guy fit and strong, filled with energy which, even now, fills every pair of Calvin's and each thong, never to be deflated, engaging in reckless games of chlamydia roulette.
Now see who comes to line the sparse grass edge, to toast them with Buckfast and Diamond White: troublemakers and corn-rowed cheerleaders who encourage them to do more burnouts or to write their donut circles, as signature, upon the bleached tarmac of empty suburban streets. There dogs bark and curtains twitch as pensioners and parents call the police to ask for quiet, seek peace - calmness, though, is for the wealthy.
And so, millennia later, you flashy vase, when all context is lost, galleries destroyed to dust and we're long gone, will future poets look at you amazed, wonder how children might have lived when you were made, lives so free and abundant and there, under a sun a little colder, proclaim How happy were those people then, who knew the truth was flexible and beauty in the eye of the beholder.