Continuing this interlude from the serialisation of Low Life Games, here is a poem addressed to my mother, written in early September
She stifled me
Then took the pillow from my face and said,
“When you do the washing up next time, be sure you don’t leave smears.”
She stifled me
Then waved good-bye for boarding school.
She said boys need discipline,
And lamented I was too young for National Service.
In the army I could be truly broken.
She stifled me
Then moved the pillow from my face and said,
“Who will you marry to make the mother of my grandchildren?”
She stifled me,
Then, when I escaped
She cried self-pity for fifteen years,
Until, feebly, I gave up escaping.
She’s overjoyed, but baffled by the reason
For my shabby absence,
Baffled and deaf, selectively,
Surprised that my lips are not
Available for kissing.
She stifles me –
Her pains, indignant piety, victimness,
She stifles me, tells me I'm a good boy and asks
“What has happened to that novel you were writing?”
I’ve used my energy,
Trying passionately,
For the sake of the non existent family
Trying not to write down
The story of her stifling.
