listening to the velvet underground at 16

by Tim Frank

This is a poem for an old friend of mine

I no longer talk to.

There is a barrier between us—

Our balled-up tongues and rusted lips

Still vandalise and scar.

We’re left with bloodshot madness—

Slaves to a playground war.

When we were sixteen

We listened to The Velvets

While smoking scraps of weed

Among plastic ghosts

And corrupted hauls of ash.

The fuzzy guitar carnage

Blitzed through fragile walls,

With obituaries of soul

And a solitary book: Candide.

Outside,

The vacant night and stillborn cars,

Clashed like inland seas.

We found a gentle prison

Fixed beneath a lightbulb

Of white-hot heat—

Together, alone.

Not even strident melodies

And seeping tombs of noise

Could save us.

The Velvets did their best;

But they didn’t stand a chance.

Photo of Tim Frank

BIO: Tim Frank’s work has been published in Bending Genres, X-R-A-Y Literary Magazine, Maudlin House, The Forge Literary Magazine, The Metaworker and elsewhere. He has been nominated for Best Small Fictions and 2xBest of the Net. His debut chapbook is, An Advert Can Be Beautiful in the Right Shade of Death (C22 Press ’24) His sophomore effort is, Delusions to Live By (Alien Buddha Press ’25). Twitter: @TimFrankquill