The parcel arrived with the postmark of Moscow stamped
across the brown,
undisturbed wrapping,
containing digital
information, music that had caught my ear as I surfed online
for something new to enthuse my world once more.
Unlike the day I first read Das Kapital, now residing on a dusty shelf
next to my Great-grandmother’s Gold leaf Guernsey Bible,
a copy of the Koran, the best of Punch and a much loved
set of drumsticks, yours by far the best as they slowly splinter
and decay as we all must.
There is a hint of madness in your eyes,
sallow, stinking of grievances mislaid;
a Kurt Cobain look but with none of the richness
or depth of consequence, a folly driven by a fool’s errand,
the unravelled strand of deserted rope decaying on the hot,
blistering jetty, no sign of a ship to save this sinking soul.
This madness, the musical abuse in which you crave
has lost its meaning
in your ears and all you hear now is the sound
of a ticking bomb, the explosion driven between the tick and the tock
If not for Maaike, we would never have met that day
where the Animals flopped and cursed their lot
in the aftermath of an afternoon ripping to shreds
the carcass of an old, unloved and despicable novel,
its spine cello taped and flea encrusted as much as the search
for it exhausted us all.
If not for Maaike, the genuine affection found in my first loved
band and in yours also would never have been shared
on a broken bed, caused by several Animals
pretending they were once more young cubs and by our hostess
Bought for 50p in a jumble sale,
you look so nondescript,
small and square, dark brown, glazed.
Some might say you’re ugly too
but stamped on the underside
is your life story, a maritime heritage,
sold at Stoniers the housewares store
for the White Star Line.
Who poured your milk or water out?
Which ship were you on?
What sea tales do you have to tell?
Did you sail from Liverpool or another Celtic port?
A humble little jug, utility ware,
staring at me from the bookshelf,
…you should have been the one to live,
you should have walked tall and taken on the world
with all its prejudiced malice and spite for
we both know you would have made so much more
of the life once glimpsed on both our parts.
I can only offer false machismo, to the point
where I gave that up as bad idea, a notion unbecoming
at the age of seventeen, perhaps the moment
where we said goodbye on the corner, only to dream of each
other’s possible lives, still holding a part of ourselves close,
…in the end, exasperated by non-compliance on my part,
my refusal to bend to the torrent of abuse that her indignity
demanded, the strength sapping empty gale
that I would pray to whatever deity
that shrunk in the back ground,
My deity’s peace sign held above Her head and on the reverse
the phrase, “Don’t shoot the messenger” emblazoned in bright colours
with the quirkiness of capital letters like punishment
thrown in here and there to make Her look as if she was hip, happening,
and a groovy chick in which to side along…but I knew
You’re charming
because you have no idea
how much you are loved,
even now,
people look at your picture and remember
how much light you bought into their lives,
how respected
you were, and just how much you meant to them.
I know,
as only one
perhaps who has slept in your bed
when you were out all day,
placed there by considerate hands
as my life become mean and meaningless,
placed there
with kindness by hands
that knows much pain
I saw your words etched down in spray paint,
BOLD CAPITAL LETTERS, on a rising pavement
in St. Julian’s Bay as the sun would start to glisten
on the Valetta streets
and the isle of Comino would soon begin to heave
to the sound of vendors selling deckchairs and the sea would spoil
for a fight.
I saw your words and was puzzled by them, not by the words
for even the damaged can understand pain,
but by their placement, their specific duty in time by unknown hand
The teachers, the tutors,
the staff, the head, the unpaid support workers
all bend their head in silent prayer,
know that the God of school simply doesn’t care
about their plight
their lot in life,
their unsaid collective fear
that there will never be a person to emerge from any year
who will make the school stand out
give the badge and crest some polish and stout
who they can hold up as a shining example,
the one person for whom they can, with gushing pride, let new pupils sample
Oh dear God, we are back here again
on a Monday morning, the routine the same
put that fag out, get ready for gym
who’s kissing who, the chances of an A received so slim.
Dear God, the pupil’s friend
to whom unbreakable excuses you do send,
give us this day our daily bread
and let not the science teacher ruin our hard fought street cred,
let not our own personal bully, be it fellow pupil of sadistic teacher
see us today, let them not use us as a bottom feeding creature.