It's my first memory of social embarrassment. I loudly proclaimed my older cousin Barry “sexy” and brought the pickled onion crunching crowd to a glowering halt. His shirt collar was open and brought over jacket lapels, his hair was slick with Brylcreem. It passed for style in those dismal days and I'd confused style with sexy. I have no idea where heard the word before but clearly it was a faux pas.

Years later I remember an Alzheimer's patient – an old school proper gentleman - pointing at his visiting daughter shouting “she sucks my cock”. Painfully embarrassed his daughter turned to everyone and mouthed, “I'm sorry.... I don't”.

These episodes provided the inspiration for this poem.

 

Clock Watchers In The Woods

 

Cloth ears? Her ill fitting teeth?

What did granny just gabble

at the gathering?

The voice above the rabble

Stopped the chatter and the babble,

Granny said there are cock

suckers in the woods.

 

Everyone looks nervous,

coughs and shuffles, muffles giggles.

Talk shifts to the weather;

Mother squirms and wriggles,

smiles politely, tugs his tresses

then to avoid his guesses,

whispers sotto voce,

 

Granny said clock watchers.

She gabbles often garbled.

What she mutters hardly matters

since she's lost her marbles.

Dad, who'd be watching clocks

or washing socks

this late at night?

She uttered sucking cocks.

What's it mean?

 

Whisked away swiftly,

unjustly and unwilling,

fluster and kerfuffle,

A tug-o-war to bed -

tuttering and trilling,

But to no-one in particular

he said -

Christ that little fucker's

on the subject of cock suckers

and he just doesn't seem to

want to let it go.

 

© 2013 Wreck of my old self productions