A dismal claque

Of catcalling delinquents

Dogs my steps

It’s a surly black dog pack

With curled down cup handle tails

Snarling and hissing at my heels.

It scuttles to the shadows

When I turn to face it

To re-gather whenever

My morale is low

One of the cohort

Spawned from the litter

A miserable

Mewling

Half dead

Toothless

Skeletal

Whipped,

But resilient pup

Slithered inside me

It may have established residency

When new born,

My guard was yet unformed.

Or

During a noisy bash

My mother thrashing me for

Soiling my pants

Caught short at age three

When stuck up a tree

Or

Unnoticed in the melee

When my crazy father

Did his best to strangle us

And we kicked him away

The best we were able

From beneath the prefab kitchen table.

Who can say?

The squatter grew

Through scholarship ‘Oik’ days

At a red brick grammar

Failing to compete with middle class achievers

Whose eyes were fixed on Oxbridge Honours.

My ink smudged hands

And exercise books

Evidence I would never

Rise above

My report’s predicted

"Amounter to not very much".

A prognosis that was right as such.

The Buddha bellied mastiff within me

Scoffed voraciously.

I shrunk from my parents' banality

They loved “The Generation Game”

but only with Brucie

And cuddled on the couch

Laughing hysterically

At Alf Garnett and Reg Varney

Beanz Meanz Heinz and "Mother Makes Three"

Television offered

Respite from their perpetual

Ritual

Domestic war game.

They threw punches, kicks or plates

And with measured pleasure

Reciprocate

Eye for eye, tooth for tooth.

In a familiar Hokie Kokie

Predating “Strictly”

Step dad

Stormed out

Crept back

Stormed out

Crept back

Raged out

Crept back

Those interludes,

After his once brand new

Battered cardboard suitcase

Was packed and the door slammed.

For the final final final time

Were best

Mum would light a fag

Act all nice to us

Dancing around the room

Singing upbeat pop

From her past:

“Shrimp boats are a’comin’

there's dancing tonight...”

"...Life could be so sweet

On the sunny side of the street"

And never mind our slurping

Of  ‘consolation’ treats.

Till nightfall

When step dad crawled back

Tail between his legs

Begging for another chance

With mother, regal on

Her imperial sofa sneering  

“You hate me but you can't survive without me.”

 

As wars go it was

A phoney modus vivendi that

Kept them happy.

But served to nourish the cur within me.

Benzedrine fuelled

At a West End all-nighter

Self consciously

Arrhythmically

Moving to Georgie Fame

And the Blue Flames

                              

An anonymous teen, a girl,

Blonde, pretty,

Sashayed up

I thought she fancied me

She stared up...and down...

uncurled her lip and sneered,

"You think you look good when you dance...

but you look stupid."

Instead...

The mastiff stirred

Awakened to the banquet ahead

Licking its jowls

Drooling.

I never danced again.