A COLD SON OF A BITCH (amended)

   YET WHY NOT SAY WHAT HAPPENED'

ROBERT LOWELL

 

John looked from the kitchen window, 

the sink he stood by was like 

the interior of a well-worn tea pot or 

the inside of his lungs sucking 

on yet another cigarette.

 

The street light threw a subtle pastel 

glow on the still housing estate, the red 

rusted Volkswagen beetle stood like 

a monument to his life.

‘I’ll have to get stuck in and fix that car 

tomorrow’, he thought dropping a sleeping 

pill rinsing it down with a cold swig of tea.  

‘I’ll have to clean this place’ he reminded 

himself climbing the stairs. 

 

 

He dreamed the cold sweat dream 

and woke to images of the dungeon

cell of the Crum (Crumlin road Gaol)

white-noise torture ringing in his ears.

 One of the longest detainees

in Ireland detained for nine months

 he skipped bail and went 

on the run to run guns 

across the border.

These were the nightmares he couldn't 

speak of they tore through his mind. 

When he woke it was those abstract 

images of memory that disturbed him 

and tore through him like 

a blunt saw.  

It’s a suffering fucking hell he said, 

throwing cold water over his face

as if extinguishing the image in the mirror 

and the reality of his bald head 

and pointed features.  

 

 

The stench of his loss lingered 

with every step he took down the stairs. 

Where once walked the wife 

and mother of his dreams.  

He could almost see her walking 

down to meet the day with that Dublin

strength that pushed the sore

 reality to the ground.  

He ejected the stale teabags 

from the teapot and thought

 I have to go the doctors and get 

that disability living allowance 

form filled in.  He look out at the 

almost unrepairable 

rusted old banger. 

 

 

He remembered how the car looked 

in the nights subtle pastel glow.

 He sat in the doctors waiting room 

trying to remember good times but

 this annoying kid kept shoving leaflets 

in his face about cancer and depression. 

 

Just as he was about to smack the kid 

up the head he heard the broken 

English voice of the Pakistani doctor 

call his name on the tanoi like 

a conductor on a 50's London bus. 

 

 

As the doctor filled in a section 

of the Disability living allowance form 

and wrote some prescriptions 

for depression angina, headaches 

and the general feeling that his life 

was a sick load of balls. 

John was calling him a black bastard 

in his mind because he asked 

him exaggerate his findings 

and received instead a lecture

 on the ethics of medicine. 

 

 

John was a bigot he didn’t know how 

to be anything else, born a bastard.

His life was filled with hate, he hated Blacks, 

Packies, Chinese Brits although he was once 

a member of the British armed forces.

He became a brit killer, I.R.A. man

as well as all those beautiful women 

he couldn't have and hated especially 

that bitch that left him after thirty-

one years. and six children.

He had no loyalty to no one not even

his wife who stood by him, after thirty-

one years, two daughters and a dead

wife appeared out of the blue.

How can you live with so much hate

in your heart? He walked home through 

the maze of housing estates with his bag 

of pills for every ill but the aching 

black hole in his heart.  

Going past the derelict houses full 

of graffiti he remembered the night 

the police man called. The shadow 

of his black cap was cast off and fell 

through the hall like the black cloud 

of Depression, 

‘your daughters have been searching for you 

for years’ screeched like rusted brakes 

crashing with a families’ laughter.  

Those words rang through his mind like 

the word bastard, the winds of a harsh winter 

reminding him that life can be 

a cold son of a bitch. 

 

He passed the old decrepit beetle without 

an engine without much hope of ever 

pumping fluid through its rotten pipes.  

He opened the front door and half expected 

his wife to pass him and his children 

playing music and busying around 

the house, instead he was met

by the grey stench of loneliness.  

 

He stood by the sink steadying himself 

as those words pounded through his head 

he washed down paracetamol 

and an anti-depressant.

 

 

His head pounded filled with anxiety 

he staggered into the living room and threw

 himself on the sofa putting his feet up 

on the coffee table between the carburetor.

and the innards of a TV set

he was trying to fix.  

He stood up held the hearth 

and placed a little blue tablet below 

his tongue and his heart rate began to fall 

and he was able to catch 

his breath and relax.  

He climbed the stairs and threw himself 

on the single bed this is my bed, he said

I must lie in it he told himself and looked 

through the ceiling through the grey sky 

through the galaxy of stars burning 

in the darkness of his sight.

 Crumpled up into a little boy and cried 

himself to sleep. I’m a loser he told himself 

remembering but not remembering

 an infant left in a basket by a blood red 

door, doing time, a single droplet 

of salted tear fell from his hardened Belfast

 

exterior he brushed it aside like 

the murdering bullet from an armalite rifle

no point crying over spilt milk, he told him-

self he lay there and cried 

himself to sleep.  

He woke with the hope of a thirty-

year-old man in debt, he bounded 

out of bed to tackle the unbeatable

 day, ‘you can’t beat a good cry’, 

he told himself throwing water 

about his worn features.   

He brushed the hair from the nape 

of his neck to cover his bald patch and

 brought it to a point on his forehead.  

He sang walking down the stairs 

a song he sang to his children 

when they cried, ‘you don’t have to be 

a baby to cry’.

 

 

Opening a cupboard in the hall he dragged 

out a filthy pair of overalls from a pile of

clothes on the floor and stepped into them 

tucked his hair into a tweed cap 

and lifted the toolbox.  

The morning was a little cool but 

the sun was coming up strong above

the grey housing estate, ‘this is going 

to be a good day’, he thought 

sucking in the almost fresh air.  

Opening the passenger door of the car 

creaking like a great sigh reaching in 

he delved between unsecured seating 

busted wings and an exhaust

 hauling a jack from the debris.  

He took the cross shaped wheel brace 

and placed it on one of the four nuts, 

before taking hold he stooped 

and spat on his hands taking hold

 he gripped the brace and turned 

with all his might and tried to budge 

the nut as if it was his last task 

on earth?  He cursed the car 

and gave it all he had, all a sixty

 year old worn heart could muster.  

A heart like a prune without syrup 

dried and left in the searing desert 

of hurt too long,’ ya red bastard, 

ya German fucker, ya useless 

heap of shit, he mumbled as 

the sweat broke on his brow.  

He rested a while leaning against 

his dream and took a cigarette 

from his top pocket lit and sucked.

he licked the beads of sweat that fell 

across his lips he ran his tongue 

across his lips once more they were cold 

and grey he licked once more 

unsure and tasted death.

 

 

On the morning of his funeral 

a letter drifted through the letter box, 

one of his pallbearing four sons 

opened it and it read, we are pleased 

to inform you that you have been 

awarded mot-ability.