A coming-of-age narrative poem

Little Johnny "Dimples" had a smile of warm bread. Grandma told him he's a good boy, but, he wanted to be naughty, instead.

Johnny said, I don't want to play the goodie, I'm not a fan, I want to be Green Goblin, not Spider-Man!

He kicked a can, head down, captured in a web, a five eyed, buzzing brained bumblebee, with sudden hormones flooding, all for Sophie.

Tracing filigree across the playground, he mapped her profile. Corkscrew claret, dangling on shoulders as precious earrings, or, roped carrot.

The parrot in his head repeated Sophie, Sophie oh-so often, as he day-dreamt on the desk. All the strange, and foreign thoughts, growing statuesque. 

Grotesque barbed wire silhouetting zodiac glitter, to home across the park, where older boys huddled, hunched, rugs of rubbish, corners glowing in the dark.

Behind a spark, a razor voice called over needles of top lips pubescent hair. He held out a poorly rolled spliff, in the tight February air.

Sophie was there, his crush, 3 years above, in school - surely if he didn't puff, she would think him,
uncool.

In a cruel tone, Sophie said, with salient sophistry; just take one drag, it's like a fag, then, I'll let you make out with me.

A chemical key, in a simple lock.
With toy fingers johnny pinched the skinny end, took a toke and, then a second, until straight lines began to bend.

Foe, or friend - the boy threw confetti praise. Sophie took Johnny's hand and, led him from the haze.

Her lips were a maze, he was lost in the madhouse, searching in an adopted mouth. Tongues twisting in salvia, as wet otters, blood rushed further south.

Consumed, unexpected cottonmouth circled, as buzzard. Pulling away, interrupted, his lexicon expelled as vapour, his equilibrium, corrupted.

His stomached erupted, lunch cascading in the air as spluttered static, painting Picassos over his, and her legs, overly dramatic.

The traumatic event sent Sophie running. All the odd shaped lads 
became hysterical; have some more, one shouted, gleefully; it's medicinal.

Footsteps, numerical, ones, and twos he laboured to a homely door, stood suspiciously guileless, on the tiles, of Grandmas kitchen floor.

His head was sore, and his pride was frayed. To Grandmas voice of silk, Johnny nodded greenly, and took, gratefully, the cold glass of milk.

© Darius the Mate 02-02-2022

Written for Shay's Word Garden.