Flash Fiction learning that the heart of writing is imagination + craft + editing.
Saturday, 14 March 2009
Love the child to be the man
The quiet back row child is dull or stupid,
just like the rest of them, the bloody paddies,
they only drink, and need a good scrubbing.
He had rags on and smelt of shit Tuesday.
I get the creeps the way he looks at you,
big empty eyes. The gossip says uncles
have had a hand spreading legs, if you get
my drift. I know the mom, so can believe.
I knew the words your head made up, they leaked
inside my brain slowing it up, a cancer
waiting. to burst when ever happiness crept in
I once had pills to scrub it dead but woke
early knowing even Jesus says no
so loved the child I was,to grow the man.
Humid Nights
Who Heard
Tarnished Hero
A child is born
I was a changeling child
abandoned but with golden
hopes that real mum
and real dad once
secret deeds were done
would rush crying to hold and hug,
making me
a real family
Sitting, staring at a dirty bed
listening to the drunkard
brawls below, pictures
formed of futures,
of hospital mistakes
so my home wormed
away by a sickly child
meant for this life.
If I was really good or really ill
Doctors and teachers would
know who I was.
I would
have the birth
meant
for me.
abandoned but with golden
hopes that real mum
and real dad once
secret deeds were done
would rush crying to hold and hug,
making me
a real family
Sitting, staring at a dirty bed
listening to the drunkard
brawls below, pictures
formed of futures,
of hospital mistakes
so my home wormed
away by a sickly child
meant for this life.
If I was really good or really ill
Doctors and teachers would
know who I was.
I would
have the birth
meant
for me.
Reunion Risks
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)