Isle of Wight, April 1989
By Alfie Shoyger
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On the day before my ninth birthday
and a weary-long birthday it was
I still wanted to be an oinkpig,
a flatfoot, a copper, so I could
stop a traffic line,
punch asinine citizens
instead of clocking-in cards, shout,
point, ignore criticisms and crack
witticisms like “Knock Knock, who’s there, Irish stew,
Irish stew in the name of the law”,
but then a stylish crew of shipmates
with billowing mullets you could misplace
an armadillo in, with disgraceful irresponsibility
on that day deflecting away
from the Isle of Wight’s spectral sands
on a nippy little vessel, were letting me
wrestle with the steering wheel,
I felt like Cecil Rhodes in a desolate clearing
armed only with a banana,
it was their idea of a birthday present
so there were waves of cheering
and cries of “Speech! Speech!”
from kids and teachers in the stern,
though I’d never even learnt how to ride a bike
let alone heave-ho the helm
of an Isle-of-Wight-departed haddock-frightener
without stabilisers or anything,
without cherubim or seraphim or David Icke’s Nephilim
to guide me crawling like an escargot over the Solent
with my cargo of forty-odd children,
in an Ayrton Senna moment
I was a lucky sod not to kill them
when that boat swung waaaaayyyy port starboard port starboard,
all over gargled screams lost marbles
and yo-yos rolling round about underhoof,
my chocolate-smudged face empty as a polling booth,
“what’s going on?” in the seesaw cockpit
as wheel-grabbing sliding mainbrace-splicers
rocketed forwards to ease the speedo,
and it was a shame those salty waves
that whacked us like a black-belt in aikido
didn’t kill off Headmaster,
a bathtime-administering
bottom-smacking
paedo.
The next day, with hastily-munched
clumps of sponge still lunging
through my digestive system,
a plaintive television set
that hadn’t heard of surround-sound
told me the police had murdered
ninety-six people
in a northern football ground.
From “Disoccidented” by Alfie Shoyger:
https://www.amazon.co.uk/Disoccidented-Alfie-Shoyger/dp/1999922859
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Comments
Great performance piece,
Great performance piece, rhythmic and powerful, the structure of the ending is particularly hard hitting.
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I like all the internal
I like all the internal rhymes in here very much, vessel wrestle, sponge lunge etc sort of makes it feel jolly, but it isn't because of the Headmaster and how you frame it with your changing idea of the polce
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I'm starting at the beginning
I'm starting at the beginning. There's life in your writing. Interpret that however you wish.
Parson Thru
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I agree with Di_Hard's
I agree with Di_Hard's comment. It's a bit like the Stone Roses effect: jangly, happy melodies carrying dark words.
Parson Thru
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