1-2-3-4!

Punk is coming.
It’s 1975.

And we are 10.

And we are ready for it.
It’s 1976.

And Punk is here.

And now we’re Punk and we say fuck.

                                               [under our breath
We say fuck Fernando.

And the fucking drums and guns in the number one spot for fourteen fucking weeks.

                                                [it’s enough to make me almost cry

                                                while spite drying the dishes

                                                wishing those cannons would blow ABBA sky fucking high
It’s 1976.

Fuck the Bay City Rollers. And their tartan.
We want Punk.

And anarchy.

                                                [we don’t know what anarchy is but it sounds dangerous and

                                                angry and we are angry inside and we

                                                like the hard angular shape the word makes in our head

                                                like the name of our town

                                                broke broke broke broke

                                                broken Broken Hill
It’s 1977.

And there’s no money for records.

                                                [there’s no fucking fun

                                                you’ve been fucking cheated

                                                of all the fucking fun
It’s 1977.

And we’re broke broke broke in the Silver City.

                                                [in this city there’s a thousand things you can’t afford to do
But we can read the music charts.

And see that the S-asterisk-X Pistols are still unfairly number two.

                                                [with a blanked out title but we know which song
It’s 1977 and Daryl and Marcia are the King and Queen of Pop.

It’s 1977 and fuck the Dirge of Kintyre.

It’s 1977 and thank fuck for The Saints.
It’s 1978.

And we’re Punk pretenders.

                                                [we’re too afraid

                                                to show we’re Punk

                                                we cover our tracks with the Punk-adjacent
It’s 1978.

And we have spike resistant hair.

                                                [our father’s Californian Poppy sends us back to the 1950s
It’s 1978.

And we want to paint our bedroom black.

And dye our hair black.

And be like Patti Smith.

                                                [and that’s not going to fucking happen
It’s 1979.

We’re closet Punks.

We stick a TV Week Boom Town Rats poster up when no-one else is home.
It’s 1979 and London is calling us on a Sunday night.

It’s 1979 and The Clash are jammed.

                                                [on Countdown

                                                in between the Bee Gees and the Electric Light Orchestra
It’s 1979 and Iggy Pop is bored on Countdown.

                                                [we’re bored with Countdown
It’s 1979.

Yes you can go to the school dance.

No you can’t dress fucking Punk.

There’s no fucking money for Punk clothes.

                                                [in broke broke broke Broken Hill

                                                fuck your shiny disco pants bought in Adelaide

                                                but i love their shiny disco pants bought in Adelaide

                                                and i’m dance dance dancing to Donna Summer
On page 56 of the high school magazine there is a photo from that night.

Three girls.

You’re the one dressed Punk.

                                                [you’re wearing a hand knitted vest from the op-shop

                                                A FUCKING HAND KNITTED VEST
You’re wearing a sign.

A fucking sign.

                                                [it says Baby Punk
The sign is attached with a novelty nappy pin you’ve nicked from home.

The sign might as well say kick me.

                                                [KICK ME!
But you’re not kicked.

You’re not kicked because you’re there with the two coolest girls in your year.

                                                [they look so fucking cool
They look like Christine McVie and Stevie Nicks.

And there’s you.

With your badly cut fringe.

Blowing a bubble gum bubble.

                                                [POP!
And some-fucking-how.

You’ve ended up looking more like Ian Curtis than Johnny Rotten.
It’s 1979 and you’re too late for Punk.

It’s 1979 and you’re post-Punk and you don’t even know it.

It’s 1979 and you don’t look happy.

                                                [but at that moment you actually are happy

                                                you’re Autistic

                                                you just don’t know it yet
                                                [let’s just call it your resting Punk face
It’s 1979 and New Wave is coming.
It’s 1980.

And New Wave is here!
It’s 1980.

And you’re 15.
It’s 1980.

And now you’re really fucking ready for it.

No. You’re not fucking ready for it.

                                                [your life is the same

                                                as it ever fucking was
***
Image: “Three Girls at the School Dance”. The Quondong Magazine, 1979: Broken Hill High School.