The Bricklayer

 

Bleeding knuckles, torn nails,

the wall about his bed remained.

Uniforms passed through, ghosts,

changing drips, injecting morphine

that killed the pain but not the past.

The bricklayer had made his bed.

 

Mum and Dad had dug the footings

of his wall, his fort, his prison.

Piss in his cot, poo in his pants.

Don’t touch your penis it’s dirty.

(even if they had eight children).

Shut in the coalshed for hours.

 

Crouched behind a cardboard wall

of cornflakes boxes on a table

he’s swallowing tears and porridge.

Uncle eats his cock in the garden

then says children should be seen

and not heard so don’t tell mum.

 

No wall is needed at school

a hundred miles from home?

Don’t shit me

Don’t hit me

Little boys are here for thrashing

Little boys are here for bashing

 

Thicker walls, thinner skin,

he weren’t gonna let anyone in.

Didn’t need to- he could shag,

an had enough money for drink,

an who the fuck would ever

want to really get to know him.

 

And now at the start of the night

he had no one inside his head

just nurses and doctors and ghosts

and a wall built around him

he will never get through. But

outside on a ledge he could see

a seagull raising its young.