No One Called You Gordon
A penchant for pain and a lack of remorse
marked you out as a 'mental case'.
Dog chains for fights, cock of the town;
you shared a room with your mother
until your brother died.
In every cup of Stephen's tea
spat bubbles of your hate.
Lock-knives launched into the fields,
between/beside our legs;
endless games of chicken.
Your legendary enmity emptied eyes of light;
a heart of darkness feeding
on the smell of piss and fear.
Hungry for complete control,
to cover and conceal.
We fogged your room with smoke and tunes
while you would find a vein that wasn't
scarred or sunk or gone.
Digging deep with dirty works,
my leather belt your friend.
No one called you Gordon, they didn't fucking dare;
your epithet was scrawled across the local shops and walls:
X
in white emulsion.
You wouldn't share a bedroom with your older brother Stephen.
And no one knew, until he died,
what he had forced on you for years
in silence
from behind.
Laura Taylor
Fri 16th Dec 2016 10:46
Colin - indeed. I've done the same thing myself on someone's poem, then heard it and they've totally made it work. Individual emphasis and delivery make the world of difference ? As for the gig - it appeared to actually stun the audience. I think because I know the poem so well, I underestimate the impact it's going to have.
Martin - thank you so much, for your comment, and your understanding, and the work that you do. This poem was the story of a very dear friend of mine, and I felt like I had to tell his story so that other people understand that surface and appearance is never the whole truth.
Weird story - I wrote this after bumping into him for the first time in ages. He was looking really healthy (had been at death's door), and was writing poetry, and had changed so much. He was actually happy. Then I woke up a few days later feeling a very strong urge to write his story, so I did but changed the names, obviously. That night, I got into my dad's car, and his favourite band (Alex Harvey) were playing on the radio - which felt weird. Then a few weeks later, he was found dead in his house - smack overdose and infection. I had to identify him cos he had no one else. Coroner's report put his death at about the time I wrote the poem. Still gives me the shivers, that, and I'm still pissed off with him that he folded when he was doing so well. Still miss him too.
elPintor - I love Lucinda ? Thank you.