Red

They say “you’re a red-head”
As if it’s a kind of insult,
As if it’s wrong to have a hair colour
Most say that they would die for and
Many actually dye for.

It’s mostly just a school thing –
kids are meaner, really.
In fact, I haven’t suffered a “ginger slur”
For years,
For as long as I can care to remember.

No, this sudden thought-bubble
Of “red-headed-ism” comes about,
Not from the pigment in the hair atop my head,
But from the lack of pigment there within
The rest of my complexion.

In my face,
and in my neck.
In my arms,
and in my legs
(Although my legs don’t get exposed as much
so keep their lack of colour).

Once the harshness of the sun comes out
Dismissing sarcastic rain-filled notions
Of “British Summer”,
Its fierceness burns through the skin
And paints me with paint made of pain.

“Ooh,” he moans as he regards his redness.
“Ouch,” he cries as he pokes burnt skin.
“Tsst,” he inhales through his teeth
As he puts on After-Sun
Even though that hardly does fucking anything.

Perhaps this is what they mean
When they say “you’re a red-head”.
Not for the autumnal copper orange doo you sport,
But for the glowing fuchsia your faces radiates.

“But why express this thought through poetry?”
You probably sit and wonder.
Well, it isn’t, see. I didn’t plan this,
So it can’t really be a poem.

Poems take time. They take love
And care
And attention.
I’m just writing this out
Without any due consideration.

Sure, I drop poetic devices in there:
Random punctuation, random line
breaks, stanzas of different lengths,
Shapes
And sizes,
Different rhythms in timing
The odd accidental half-rhyming,

But that’s all it is –
Accidental.
This is not a poem I’ve slaved away constructing.
This is something I’ve concocted over thirty minutes or so
Of typing.
Without really stopping
Or going back rewriting.

You think that this is poetry?
“Pah!” I say in response.
But perhaps linguistic genius,
A pretentious poetry professional,
Would say otherwise.

You think that this is poetry?
I say I’m chucking words together.
Either way,
One of us is wrong.
One of us has been left
Red-faced.

---

As the sun takes what could well be its final toll on our fair skin for the year, let’s throw another summery noise-blast into the mix, shall we? Played on what I can only assume are – for want of a better description – cosmic milk bottles, this tune has all the vibe of a beach festival rave as held by an introvert, perhaps with no more than two or three people showing up.

The bizarrely stage-named Pillow Person regularly hangs around with the Hot Chip crew, explaining her frequent and repetitive use of electronic noises. However, the name puts me more in mind of when you turn a pillow vertically in bed so you have a pretend companion to bash your head against in pursuit of overnight comfort. Bonus bit: watch out for some skin peeling before the end, I should imaging that’s how my face will look in about a week or so.

Pillow Person – Go Ahead