The distinction between my cartoon life

and everyday is never an easy one.

It’s possible in both to come to grief.
Chaos is the natural order: the fun

side of the reign of terror. Violence

is comical. It’s never a real gun
but canes and slippers make a brutal sense.

I’m lost in Bash Street now. An air of menace

hangs by the school gates. My innocence
is cartoon innocence. Out in the yard Dennis

waits for a boy in specs. Back in the house

Dad flexes his muscles while his enemies,
the wild boys, lurk in the garden. Enormous

shadows rise on the wall. A burned out car

smokes on the horizon. A sabre-toothed mouse
grins at a screaming woman. There’s nothing bizarre

about any of this. This is life: get used to it.


There’s always someone somewhere crying Aaargh!


I’m bursting my sides laughing. My football kit

is strewn across the floor. I can hear myself lying

to my parents. I’m Roger the Dodger, fit
to enter the frame, steady, death-defying.