I miss you all.
I miss you all.
Joseph seemed more concerned
About my reluctance to engage
In the process than was I.
After all, I knew myself from the inside out.
Nothing about me seemed worth
Drawing a stranger's attention
‘So you don’t tell anybody you write?’
‘No not really...what would be the point.
Spoken in anger after another fight
I kicked him in the nuts
He broke my tooth
And he was very much of the opinion
That nothing but grunts
Came out of a pit village
Art, poetry and the like
Was not meant for us…’
‘Why did he say something so cruel?
There have been many working class heroes.’
“Yes.’ I said ‘That’s something to be.’
‘O shoot man don’t go quoting Lennon
At me.’
‘Sorry my man...it wasn’t a hard sell.’
He wasn’t a bad guy
But seemed a little short of
Self-awareness.
He blew hard all day about how his life
Sucked
Whilst poking his nose full of powder
From a silver cigarette case
He kept in the inside pocket
Of his Burbery
Wore his privilege without shame
Had an allowance paid into his bank
Five figures every month
Spent his days chasing a high
At his father’s expense
But wasn’t unhappy about that
‘I would tell everybody.’
He reasoned. ‘Because the more people
I told, the more chance I would
Hit on somebody who would roll my wagon.’
‘And?’
‘And he or she maybe even them or they
Would take my shit and publish it.’
‘Which would make you a writer?’
‘You damn right guy.’
‘Sounds simple.’
‘As easy as sayin’…especially when you got
The gift.’
‘Are you saying I have the gift?’
‘Well I dunno man...I never read none
Of your shit
But if you write as well as you talk
Then that’s good enough for me
You know what I’m saying?’
I didn’t, not really
He spoke as if he really
Was a street kid
But didn’t seem to know too much
About how the world worked
Outside of his very own bubble
Of privilege
Even so
He carried a silver hip flask
And drove an Aston
I didn’t own a spare pair
Of shoes
And wrote on both sides of the page
‘Yeh I guess I do my friend’
It is always easier to agree,
People seem to prefer it.