the hum of the bathroom fan the last chopper out of saigon the flickering death of a strip light the deathly lick of a flick knife the gurgle of water leaving the bath the bloody froth on a gaping mouth the flush of shit from the toilet bowl the empty hollow of hunger’s howl
the fresh linen sheets smell of lavender the stench of the landfill scavenger the creams that ease the pains and sores the exodus from the fields of war the rattle of rain on an old tin roof the submachine gun’s final proof the free thoughts gently running riot the police shots that bring disquiet
the art that hangs on suburban walls the relics smashed when a culture falls the sunset walk along a sandy beach the napalm girl with arms outstretched the shelves of plenty in the grocery store the hands reach out for a few grains more the charity that we give the bloody lives we live
john and yoko still screeching
from scratchy supermarket sound systems
war is over – if you want it
blah – blah – blah – blah
but somehow the message has been lost
somewhere down the miles of Christmas aisles
just imagine no possessions
I wonder if you can!
She asked me if I was happy. I don’t know, I replied, are you?
She paused and thought for a while before saying, I think there have been periods of happiness but on the whole, no not really.
We were sat on the terrace of a bistro we used to frequent. How many years, I asked, thirty-four, thirty-five?
We tried to work it out and settled on thirty-four.
Half a lifetime, almost.
A seagull strolled along the iron balustrade,
stopped and squirted a stream of white crap over the side.
It landed with a slap on the black tidal mud below.
This unsociable act appeared to give the seagull great pleasure.
Tilting its head backwards it squawked at the sky as if to declare ‘this is my patch now’ before flying off and forgetting,
circling away towards the new white footbridge to alight and no doubt
eject its fishy crap once more like an incontinent vandal.
A breeze blew across the line of low tide water below the houseboats.
It caused little ripples to fan out in all directions
all of which were unsure which way to run.
I looked at the side of her face. Laughter and life outlined.
The bone structure was less defined now under her fifty year old flesh.
Like myself, I noted a few extra pounds here and there.
Beneath her skin a slight translucence glowed,
a bit like an underwater river. I found it strangely alluring
but it also made me feel like I was drowning. Lost at sea.
I crossed my legs and leant forward and she turned and smiled
as if having read my thoughts but more likely a nervous reaction
to the break in conversation.
Do you remember, up on the hills? she asked,
turning to look southwards. The biplane had circled overhead
whilst down below we had made love in the wheat field
surrounded by poppies. How could I forget.
I went to get more drinks and when I returned
she was standing by the iron balustrade,
her dark hair across her shoulders, her head turned away.
In contemplation of the ebbing tide, perhaps.
I fought the temptation to stand close behind her,
to feel her body close to mine, one last time.
When she turned, her face revealed the single line
that a teardrop makes as it trickles down a woman’s cheek.
Why did you come back? she said suddenly.
Her words hit me like a gust of wind through a propeller.
I looked away and up the river, steadying my thoughts. I’m sorry, was all I could think of in reply. And I was.
You used to call me your Petite Fleur, she said.
I’d forgotten that. A bit embarrassing really.
I had been her first and she, mine.
I had plucked the petals from my little flower
one by one, until the call had come and I was gone.
I watched her fly away in her poppy print dress.
A flock of seagulls battled with a biplane high in the sky
and I knew then that this war was finally over.
give the boy a toy soldier
some tanks and battle cries
dress him up in cowboy clothes
the only good Injuns are dead ones
bang bang you’re dead son give us a chance dad you gotta learn quick son yeah but give us a chance dad
give the boy a placard
hold it in the air boy
tell the boy what to shout about
doesn’t matter he looks bemused
what do we want son? I haven’t got a clue dad
when do we want it son? I don’t know I’m just a boy dad
give the boy a slap dad
slap him across the thigh
tell the boy there’s more where that came from
threaten with your hand held high
want another one like that son? what did I do wrong dad?
shut your mouth and do as you’re told son I’m really sorry dad
give the boy a rifle
tell him how to clean it
cherish this more than your mother’s life boy
because by god you’re gonna need it
point it and pull the trigger son but it feels so heavy dad
kill the fucking deer son but it’s got a young one to feed dad
give the boy a uniform
make him feel like he’s a god
feed him whores to steal his childhood
take it away for good
if she doesn’t want it slap her son is that the way it’s done dad?
you gotta tell ’em who’s the boss son I’ll tell ’em like you said dad
give the boy some power
a gang of drooling men to lead
vote for him for he’s the one
yes he’s the one we all agree
take this power and use it well son there’s hatred in my blood dad
remember all I taught you son yes your will it will be done dad
NB: this one follows on from the last and hopefully continues a thread of thoughts on a particular theme – one which is admittedly a rather odd take on Father’s Day:
keep moving you whisper
the only safe thing to do
through dandelion fields
once yellow with promises
where a footpath crosses
barely visible
like the secret run of a badger
diagonal from edge to edge
avoiding obstacles with booted feet
and the air blistering overhead
wide brimmed tin hats casting shade
eyes on the scything swifts
squelch of mud between steps
and over we go
the rough lichen crusted timbers
the ivy bandaged broken limb
the stream that wets the flat rocks
rippled on a seabed before man
we climb and reach up our hands
but the fruit has not yet formed
and all about us
the song of our foot fall
repeating echoes in hollows
‘Ello, I wish to complain about this dove of peace
what you ‘ave been selling for over half a century
from this very international alliance boutique.
Oh yes, the, uh, the United Nations Blue…
What’s,uh…What’s wrong with it?
I’ll tell you what’s wrong with it, my good sir.
It’s dead, that’s what’s wrong with it!
No, no, it’s uh,…it’s resting.
Remarkable bird, the U.N. Blue. Beautiful plumage!
All right then, if it’s restin’, I’ll wake it up! ~
‘Ello, Mister Secretary General!
I’ve got a lovely fresh war for you if you wake up…
There, it moved!
No, it didn’t, that was you hitting the cage!
I never, never did anything…
Exactly! Now look, mate,
I’ve definitely ‘ad enough of this.
That dove of peace is definitely deceased,
and you assured me that its total lack of movement
was due to it bein’ tired and shagged out
following a prolonged debate.
No, no…..No, it’s just stunned!
STUNNED?!?
Yeah! You stunned it, just as it was wakin’ up! United Nations Blues stun easily, sir.
No! That’s what I call a dead dove of peace!
Well, I’d better replace it, then. Sorry squire, I’ve had a look ’round the back of the HQ, and uh, we’re right out of doves of peace.
I see. I see, I get the picture.
(pause) I got a slug?
with thanks to Monty Python and the artist Yücel Türkoğlu
for the inspiration.
slideaways 