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No One Called You Gordon

 

A penchant for pain and a lack of remorse

marked you out as a 'mental case'.

Dog chains for fights, cock of the town;

you shared a room with your mother

until your brother died.

 

In every cup of Stephen's tea

spat bubbles of your hate.

Lock-knives launched into the fields,

between/beside our legs;

endless games of chicken.

 

Your legendary enmity emptied eyes of light;

a heart of darkness feeding

on the smell of piss and fear.

Hungry for complete control,

to cover and conceal.

 

We fogged your room with smoke and tunes

while you would find a vein that wasn't

scarred or sunk or gone.

Digging deep with dirty works,

my leather belt your friend.

 

No one called you Gordon, they didn't fucking dare;

your epithet was scrawled across the local shops and walls:

X

in white emulsion.

 

You wouldn't share a bedroom with your older brother Stephen.

And no one knew, until he died,

what he had forced on you for years

in silence

from behind.

 

 

 

 

 

◄ Kaleidoscope

The Doppler Effexit ►

Comments

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Laura Taylor

Fri 16th Dec 2016 10:46

Colin - indeed. I've done the same thing myself on someone's poem, then heard it and they've totally made it work. Individual emphasis and delivery make the world of difference ? As for the gig - it appeared to actually stun the audience. I think because I know the poem so well, I underestimate the impact it's going to have.

Martin - thank you so much, for your comment, and your understanding, and the work that you do. This poem was the story of a very dear friend of mine, and I felt like I had to tell his story so that other people understand that surface and appearance is never the whole truth.

Weird story - I wrote this after bumping into him for the first time in ages. He was looking really healthy (had been at death's door), and was writing poetry, and had changed so much. He was actually happy. Then I woke up a few days later feeling a very strong urge to write his story, so I did but changed the names, obviously. That night, I got into my dad's car, and his favourite band (Alex Harvey) were playing on the radio - which felt weird. Then a few weeks later, he was found dead in his house - smack overdose and infection. I had to identify him cos he had no one else. Coroner's report put his death at about the time I wrote the poem. Still gives me the shivers, that, and I'm still pissed off with him that he folded when he was doing so well. Still miss him too.

elPintor - I love Lucinda ? Thank you.

elPintor

Fri 16th Dec 2016 00:24

Hi, Laura..this post has been sneaking up in my thoughts since you posted it. That must be a sign of a well-written piece. This evening I'm listening to Lucinda Williams and this song, once again, brought up thoughts of Gordon..

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QDVMgjxPIqo

..a powerful piece revealing much of our humanity.

elP

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Martin Elder

Wed 14th Dec 2016 23:56

A fab poem Laura as I would expect from you, in true gritty style. Having worked with people in this predicament I find this an all too familiar tale, but extremely well told.
Nice one
Martin

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Laura Taylor

Wed 14th Dec 2016 16:08

Thank you all.

Bit of a confession to make on this one...it's an old one, re-posted, because I'm doing it tonight at my last gig of the year and wanted to run it past you all. I've only performed it twice before. I know it's a very heavy piece, but it's also a true story, so I think - well, you think it's hard to hear? Try living it. And then think twice - as you rightly point out Wolfgar.

Thank you all so much, and Colin, it really does work when I perform it chuck ?

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Cathy Crabb

Wed 14th Dec 2016 10:03

Brilliant. Well hidden xx

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