The Fall were Marmite Salty, dark and strong. They had a shape. A jar. A stain. Savoury and wrong. Manchester, meat and gravy. Cigarettes and cans of beer. Unhealthy. Very fucking tasty. The tang. The dis-articulation The rant. The on and on and on and on. Abrasive. Driven. Thumping through your stomach. On your tongue. Chew that barbecue until you blister. Hug the darling noise. Let it leave you full and stung. He sang unlike a bird uh. -- a canted scowl aloud. His lyrics bit, unlyrical. And stuck inside your head like Marmite sticks to bread.
Joe Crocker lives in Yorkshire. He is quite old to be starting out in poetry but succumbed to the muse during the Covid lockdown and has had a few things published, mainly in Snakeskin magazine, and also in Philosophy Now, Light, The Orchards, Bewildering Stories, Allegro and in New Verse News.
Editor’s Note: This poem compares The Fall, a post-punk music group active in Manchester from the late 1970’s, to Marmite, a yeast-based substance eaten with bread. Readers who doubt the metaphor are encouraged to perform the experiment.