Gorecki Plays

 

     He was no narcissi,

He didn’t even like exposure

And despite the loudness –

Sought refuge in Gorecki,

 

His was a great misunderstanding

That in reality, became the pleasure

Of feeble minds,

     Rejected as sport,

Everyone he knew came

To lazy conclusions,

Enticed by an entity without heart and soul,

 

     He was as history told,

Declared orphan near birth,

Rejection discarding his calls for a mothers love,

     And later, the adoption homes

Became fearful with no security,

No stability, no bonds could he have.

 

     Gorecki plays sorrowful songs,

The operatic doom of holocaust

Soothing the migraine that takes his vision

And impales him to a bed with little pleasure,

     And he knows the medicine could

Even be his killing as he swallows

The pills that fatten his once lithe torso,

 

     Misunderstood?

Not really, it’s just that,

They didn’t want to acknowledge

The Man knew not why so much bad luck

Hardship and suffering had offloaded

Their utter kindness upon him and,

He would laugh,

     Laugh at his Mothers remarks -

‘He’  be a love child when he asked,

Who’s my Dad – Ma?

 

     Love child she declared in-between

The beatings and if only,

She did not go back to pick him up,

Perhaps someone would have adopted he -

Where a bright future could be lived.

 

     Diving under the covers again,

It’s all taboo he thought as he negotiated

The pain and tried to keep out the light,

‘They’ don’t like it when you tell the tale of

Female neglect,

     They would make monster of him

For even telling how it really is,

That way, they keep the charades going

As gallant figures fight in earnest

Over a sniff of cunt.

 

     (He collects his thoughts from their bitter onslaught),

 

     He doesn’t count the pills,

He knows he has doubled the offering

That will make his blood boil and

Tickle his veins and, he really wishes he could

Achieve it in one swallow,

     But he knows the hotspots will

Appear again when he regains consciousness;

The cold hands dipping into his chest

And massage the broken muscle

Just to keep him alive for sport.

 

     Rejection!

Such a sigh, such a sigh,

If only they knew, it was his life

And love they denied,

If only they knew too,

It was the world at war

That he himself rejected,

 

     He looks towards his wife

And children now circling the bed

To comfort him,

     He longs to be the man

They can rely on,

But the torture and isolation

Of his experience, and the

Laughter of a hateful people,

Seared his heart from a very long time ago;

The scars deep like folded tissue that

Has grown back deformed over a deep

And bloody wound.

 

     He lies there,

No tears but cold,

No fears of death and old,

Wondering how long must he endure

A life that was never wanted,

     The throbbing in his head

Pulsating a discordant rhythm

With a grieving composer,

And he would brag his suicide

Just to let them know that nothing really changes,

Because after all,

He boasts as he came from fuck all

But poverty and neglect,

Where no-one gave his efforts any credibility,

 

     He loves his family he fought for,

But he is tired of living amongst a carnage

That people just won’t understand

And even refuse to,

     Society is fake,

Life is a lie,

And as for being a love child,

He only wants to die.

 

Michael J Waite 26^th February 2017.