Walking through a sunny door glistening
With pockets bulging
3.5 inch floppy disc –
Daddy 6 inches deep.
Treasure traded for sunlight –
You know the rules for
Big Girls’ Blouses
So I’m holding a figure of a snake in my palm
Catching it in the sunlight of my pencil set.
It’s Sunday and I’m kicking a football high –
& higher up into the air – is someone there going to see?
I walk next door & through the fence
passing the stinging nettles, careful not to meet my death.
& along the plank where I was tied
To grow inside bound to a pole of four by four
In their house now, I struggle to breathe
The heat of an Irish roast dinner.
From the smears in the windows I see –
Death to beige vegetables
And I too want to die.
But I find a totem of the ordinary – a figurine of the familiar
Secretly kissing I take him up to my treehouse to look at the tree
That almost crushed my mother in the hurricane of 87 or 89?
How could this come to be?
I walk on and its summer
My friend and me we try to kill bees
Clunky with buckets of water, smiling.
And mother is laying like a child
Kicking her red toe nailed feet happy in the air.
A perfect breeze – the neighbours’ sax plays melancholy over the trees
Everyone goes home in the end.
So sad I scratch Come Back to the dinner table
With a safety pin I could bind my fingers in.
It’s winter now and we’re ill and dying.
I think it might be Christmas or something.
No one came to visit –
There’s a trail of snot like breadcrumbs to rescue the three of us from each of ourselves
I don’t care though as I saw the cobwebs in my fathers shed and that was enough.
Him drunk spilling petrol into the lawnmower willing the turf to wither and die
He’s dead himself now –
Yet I like to think these are small gifts to me.
me knowing how to climb over the bin
and break in – to get my bike
and ride off
as I had a job and needed wheels.
it’s okay –
this isn’t a sad song or anything.
but it did break my heart
climbing over that fence,
on the bin and letting myself
fresh clothes, nice lawn,
my childhood gone
chalk smeared from slate.
I spat on the saddle, rubbed myself in.
bold speed blossoms as I watch the turn of the seasons
for the first time
alive and aching with miraculous drugs
and drawing – really drawing and that being the education of Art
private drawing – not sleeping –
and sinking and hearing my mother drunk and always almost dead.
when I bring my first girlfriend home to wear a condom
even if mum said it’s born from cling-film
and that girlfriend being truly horrified and me thinking
she’s being quite normal really.
and riding around suicidal in the backs of cars
on speed binges looking for a perfect spot
in the countryside well away from the law
where we could talk under the stars –
into what it is now I can only remember.