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.

Some of the Parts

All that made you up -
Ear lobe, spine, and laughter,
That small scar under your belly -
I tried so hard to keep them together.

Now they’ve gone to ground,
Plugging the soil. Seedlings sprout,
And birds build nests
From what made your heart beat slow,
That first time we nearly lost you.

Pacing the room,
I'd prayed for God to take you
Back to where he spewed you from
That first time,
Before I even knew you.

This body isn’t ours to have,
Begged, borrowed, stolen,
It lasts a while, and
Then is given back.
Doctors took your flesh, made it theirs.
Trimming a curl from your head,
I hid it in a pillbox,
I'd glossed red.

All that apparatus
Became part of you
– Hoist, chair, a plastic spoon
Metal wheels, an oxygen mask;

I breathed with you your last
Breath - strained, a tiny hole
Was all that was left of your mouth.

I kissed it all the same,
Pulling down the sheet to
Watch the liquid of your life
Drain away.

Next day I stepped out
Onto speckled pavements,
Sun behind poplars,
Smoke over steelworks,
Poppies staining my eye.
They buzzed with light from you.

You made the woodpigeon coo.

So through steel and white air,
Mucus, spring, fallow

I owe you my life, Mum,
Until red seeps back into that grainy snapshot
And I follow.