a writer of sorts
A Confessional Prose Poem of sorts.
Martin came by to babysit. I was three and had heard
Good Vibrations by the Beach Boys on the radio that morning
for the very first time. I asked my Mum what the wheeoo noise
was. She said she didn’t know and thought i didn’t like it.
So she switched the radio off and got a tantrum in return.
I told Martin about the song and demonstrated the noise
that had thrilled me.
I’m sure I thought I was being sophisticated but maybe
the flannelette pyjamas and arms flapping as I wheeooed
around my bedroom told a different story. Martin pulled
the books from his bag and tried to read for an essay.
I didn’t know what that was or where it lived or why
it wanted to be read to ,
With patience and a smile I still remember, it being the only
part of his face that could be seen through his Michael Bentine
Martin explained school work and my three year old self
declared that when I grew up I wanted to write ee-says
for a living, the mispronunciation making him chortle,
threatening to part and reveal
his unseen eyes.
Jane would always tut and sigh
at my academic failure
astonished that I was, she said,
‘the most intelligent man I’ve met’
and frustrated that I should be
so much more than the fuck-up waster I’d become.
So pained by my self-destructive indifference
she cut off all relations.
after ten or so years had elapsed
and she was thrilled that
I had studied and succeeded.
I felt worthy enough to hold my head up;
To be her friend again.
The next time I saw her was at her funeral
never having had the chance to say
thank you, face to face.
All I could think of was Jane dancing
to Ella Fitzgerald
“A tisket a tasket
she’s laying in her casket”
hammering in my head
haunting me as an unwanted meme.
As Pie Jesu
to Love Shack
no one danced
and I couldn’t help but feel
I had disappointed her