My Old Man

My old man
runs the local Superstore
up on Redd Street,
opposite The Sycamore.
My old man likes
to sink a beer,
doesn't mind the blacks,
but hates queers.

My old man's
a worm to feed,
rotten apple that
spilled too much seed.
His new wife
is from Maida Vale;
she shudders as she reads
The Daily Mail.

My old man
likes driving at night,
eyeing up girls
with push-up bras
and skinny thighs.
He takes them down
to the Suffolk stream
where everything
smells icy clean.

And he plucks them
off, one
by one, beside
the silent car;
twists
their necks like
new bought jam jars.

Then
he drops them in
the water, oh,
he watches them float,
tiny skirts fanning out,
their mouths
little red inflatable boats.

Sends them
swirling
down to the canal dam,
where dogs
shit heavy and
teenagers
push prams;
where the sun
rises yellow in
the dirty sky.

And every day:
another headline.
Every morning
he pulls his flannel pants on,
gives the wife a peck,
thuds down the stairs
to breakfast.

My old man
runs the local Superstore
up on Redd Street
opposite The Sycamore.
For him,
life is a question of
balance: he works his
fifty hours, then
teaches those fucking whores
a lesson.

My old man
lights a cigarette,
lets it burn
in my palm.
If I could hold a gun
I'd take him out tomorrow,
I'd take out every last prick
who laughed at his stupid jokes,
who bought him a drink.