Most of all, I hate your smile.
I can almost tolerate the braying laughter
and the purple hair, the endless bitching
about comic books and Harry Potter,
your Pick and Mix of labels and identities,
but not your smile, no. It reminds me
that I must be doing something wrong.
I’ve put effort into understanding you,
but every time I go online I wither; if this
is how its handlers treat it, our language
should be taken into social services.
Ableism, manspreading, body-positivity.
What do these things fucking mean?
These are words for tall teenagers,
Poundland geeks bloated by supremacy,
that manufactured brand of weirdness;
hair dye, piercings, box sets to be ticked.
And in Bizarro World, the pundits counter
via libtard, beta-something-or-another.
Non-conformity has lost all meaning.
This is a generation of mundane rebellion,
Che Guevara t-shirts, twenty-somethings
clamouring for justifiable injustice.
When did punk become a suffix?
NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR:
This poem is taken from my debut collection, ‘Keep it in the Family’.
Marc Brightside is a UK-based poet who discovered poetry under the tuition of Julian Stannard, his own work characterised by darkness interspersed with humour and introspection. He is affiliated with Poets Anonymous and Gobjaw, and can frequently be found performing in-and-around London. His debut collection, Keep it in the Family, was published in 2017, while he is currently seeking representation for his second manuscript, Personal Impersonal.