Editor’s note: Some time ago we started working on a story about Snobs. Darren sent us this to use. It’s lovely. He told us ‘No tongue in cheek here, it’s a straight up poem about meeting my future wife at the Big Wednesday night in the mid ’90s. Love Snobs and have great memories of the place’. This poem is quite a big part of the story we are still writing, but we wanted to share it with you now, the day after Snobs as we all knew it closed. If you have anything to tell us about Snobs use the comments, and let us know if we can nick your story for our own (Jon H)
The Small Room On Big Wednesday
He was a vertigo-liver, but for tonight he’ll spin.
‘Just gimme some more!’
The unworn denim sleeves are a counter balance,
but it’s so fast, he’s seeing the inside of a potter’s wheel,
covering a vase from within, painted with a smear of ruby spot lights.
‘Pass the peas, like the used to say, pass the peas…’
They never talk; he’s only heard her mouth ‘Alright?’ to him all summer,
but they know each others’ moves instantly:
a midnight jigsaw of skin, sin and soul.
‘Doing it in the park, doing after dark, oh yeah, Rock Creek Park…’
Just be in a fag cloud’s distance from the DJ booth and it’ll happen,
tattooed by the same violet beams – a regiment line appears –
feet in-line, dance formation conceived,
45-degrees to 360-degrees, trainers played the parquet floor like a stylus on a record:
‘It’s a family affair!’
He thinks this is the closest he will ever get to women;
he’s soaked, his skin has been crying out of happiness all night,
but thinks: ‘I can’t hug and sponge sweat on your dress.’
The boy will be thinking about tonight for years to come,
in a still, warm house with a dawn storm roaring outside,
after they are married.
