the anarchists of hyde park (and my dad)

1 February 2018

there’s a bee sting that draws dave’s palm
back he waves it out there in the open air and then
sucks on the puff of jelly skin though you know that’s
not gonna help dave is
burly big his beard’s big
it’s a nest a nettle a smoked out mass
of comfort wood whisky oak and i
put my whole head in it when i was ten
big pat on the back big dave
now let’s get back
to the literature revolution

dad dad revolution dad
wasn’t always so tatty but
it wasn’t a woman mum
that made him come undone
it was just the passing of life yeah
just the waking up finally
just the finally seeing
he smelt
of sweat and skin but when
it’s your own blood it smells sweet
smells like heat like summer like here
they come again these men
and one of them’s holding court
always hoping hoping
for a change for anything
don’t blame the wrong thing
something’s changing that’s for sure i’m sixteen

put on a tie
just to see them start
they’re too far gone
it’s the first-class stuff from mark
from his own
grown in his own back yard before the pigs got it
put my lips
thin pink twigs on suzie’s
twenty years older than me to the day
she doesn’t even laugh
guess i have an irish tongue
i’ve swallowed the pamphlets whole
and suzie’s dad was chilean
or so the rumour goes so
she’s really real she knows her stuff she’s conscious
we never speak again

i was moon-like then i was
pale and waiting
sat in the shade reading
they sat in the sun in the grass in the middle of the park
someone’s got a guitar nick
cave nick cave nick cave nick save
us tufts of belly hair blooming out of shirts
these old men these pink and shiny sacks going way back when
getting closer every day
to the sum to the truth to every one
not coming undone
i take off at a run
i circle the path i pant
no one comes after me
i rake the bulbs and yell
look at this fuckin fuckin
look at this country
a pause

applause from the enclave
applause for the son
finally
a benediction howling his young lungs out
dad glows they’re my
friends they’re my friends in arms for life
and another thing sorry
the house is on wheels tonight

a roach steals into
the hollowed out shell of a snail
i lower my head to the floor
fresh grass outside
the door
there’s hope tonight
if i set this place on fire
there’s truth

This entry was posted in 84: SUBURBIA and tagged . Bookmark the permalink.

Related Posts:

  • No Related Posts Found

Comments are closed.

Please read Cordite's comments policy before joining the discussion.