Clapham Birthday

by brightonsauce

It is my birthday, and I am now quite old.  Two years ago I was young, lived in this same attic but things were very difficult.  During that time I wrote ‘Wildlife Nuisance,’ the piece I shall narrate, I reckon, in a Clapham bookshop to promote the new anthology.  A return to London, London makes me sad.  One reason, well you shall see, I also wrote this that same time: think I might entertain with this narration, but embarrassed –  cannot fix my opening, I will, I will.

Might say something like ‘that was then, and now I..’ and read the audience [of three thousand, probably in the bookshop] the blazing hot ‘Near Perfect Future,’ a new piece, still requires an hour to delete sag sections – to bang off the page, ‘bang, bang, bang, in your face.’  Maybe I might read a draft  ‘prisoner escape story?’ I like those, so, so back to theme, in the tradition-genre of Dad Death Poetry, here’s my imperfect DIRECTOR’s CHAIR

 

Director’s Chair

 

I must turn, take the shock, every child see father
father, mother (widow) aghast, she needs the right clothes [WEAKEST LINE]
wails in Waitrose, or might be mArks and Spencer for the headgear
she sends her love, up above
Like you I prefer Sainsburys
with the arrangements/ When you left us my man
I thought we were rich, waiting here the lifetime I fed from your fridge
Really a quite terrible fool
Should have listened to what you said …what was it?
Even yesterday we had a smoke, that daughter of yours, the puff sent me white out
imagined your corpse
stagger down the motorway
You came, arrived to kiss me goodnight. He’s watching over us she says. I do hope not or I shall wear my own pyjamas
Don’t I rattle on, no offence
Eyes down low, south in this room
Is good we’re talking though, though your pressed lips are sown.
Half sawn at the midriff, my Pop
taut in a box, stapled to sheeting and wearing a dress.
Oh, quite not my daddy, I suppose wrong suite two
I have sobbed on dear
Agnes
whilst looking for you.

 

Where is framed pine my cowboy, all tidy and mean
combed ,cold, no pillow, with your white needles cleaned?
Still you should check these womanly willows crossed at the wrist
She’s a dignified looker, like Grace Kelly, all curls through the mist.
Father be proud, you once cupped me, caressed
as I do now for auntie, my cheek to her breast
I whisper ‘my lover’ and I call her ‘my sweetie’
These are my strengths, this and the eating.
I shall call the director and move in a minute
I will find the right room, I’ll take your hand in it.
All waxworks: lovely, soap lingers on the sleeve
Decay right ghastly, this scent I breathe.

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