For a long time now, I have opted for heels, jeans and a leather jacket, but I remember the looks I used to get, walking down the road with my backcombed hair, my white make-up and my blood-red lips; studs and lace draped around my waist; and multiple purple tassels swaying around my ankles. I always felt like I was asking for trouble. Why? I don’t know? I felt proud of the music I loved, Bauhaus; The Mission; The Sisters of Mercy; Siouxsie and the Banshees; Fields of the Nephilim; New Model Army; and if I could wear stuff that reflected that interest then, I was damn well going to do it! It was exciting!
Was it threatening to other people? No, I don’t think so. I was the same happy person under it all; it was only clothes and music; an art form that provided a sense of community, just like any other community in every day, suburban society. It is strange then, then some people do choose to be threatened by it, in the same way that a large, unleashed dog is a worry around small children. They must either move away from it or regard it with caution or, are confused by it and get angry.
This blog post is a celebration of World Goth Day and also a reminder that we are all born and eat, sleep and breathe, in the same way as each other; no one is fundamentally different to anyone else. We all value life.
MOTHER’S BABY FATHER’S PRIDE
Clothed in rips and bruised tattoos
lies a mother’s baby; a father’s pride.
Sticky with wet crimson, crimped blue waves
hide kohl eyes streaked in pain.
He’d missed the bus by seconds and the next was running late.
Then it happened.
He’d not run nor shouted nor argued.
Just ignore them; that is best.
“Weirdo!” was the hateful, screaming, battle cry,
“Who d’ya think you are!”.
The pavement presses against his cheek;
It’s dead cold.
Warm blood bubbles with dirty grit
inhaled deep down with struggling breath.
What blinkered fist judged so harshly?
Some mother’s baby; some father’s pride?