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.
