HUMAN FUCKER

I wonder what my

father would make

of me now. I wrote

my first words the day

he died sitting on the hard chair by his

open coffin, the candles flickering flames

The bruise on his face showed how he fell

and died.

The kids found him, thought him a drunk.

My first poem published was called

Bastard life about him left on a door-

step, she ran to some unknown freedom.

I hated him from day one I think he hated

me, said I was too sensitive needed

a good kick. That sensitivity created

this Poem, seven books of poetry.

Poetry wasn't his thing he was 

A hardman from Ardoyne. Asked

Me once to prime a bomb, a member.

Of the I.R.A. I looked him up and down

Disgusted walked away, wish I was brave

Enough to save peoples lives, I'm sorry.

This poem goes out to you my English

Brothers, fathers sons of narrow waters.

The irony of it all is he was once a British

Soldier, he fought with the bullet, I pen.

He's buried now on black hills in a plot-

Less grave that’s the way he lived, died.

He was a liar, a deep secretive man

I am an honest confessional poet doing

The best I can to make the fucker human.