It smells like piss.
the cave-paintings of tags
discarded butts, discarded men
women
children
wait.
he starts to cry,
the littlest one
in his pram,
his mother says,
‘are you bleeding? did someone hit you? no?
you’re all right then.
you’re not playing with the boys enough. hang around girls and
see what happens.
you’ll turn into a bitch, girls are bitches.’
she plays a game of ‘goodbye’,
walking away and coming back,
until he is crying again,
she is preparing him and herself,
she knows that she is near to losing him.
a man with a golden halo of hatred passes through,
the weight of knowing bending his frame
driven to tell a story, his and not his own,
i watch his face, his movements, his sorrow
he declares that he will destroy what is in his way that
he doesn’t like
tells me about nano-technology applied to the Bomb,
tells me about the broken promises of politicians
and then i see through it
and i say, ‘you feel betrayed’.
he looks at me for a moment
shakes his head, ‘that’s something else you’re picking up on.’
but he gives me back my lighter,
softer…
but anyway,
there we all were,
a family group of sorts,
but i’m the only white one
i feel out of place, and
they know i’m not there
for anything
but that
and neither are they
funny how lack,
how desire,
brings us together
at a place like glue bag bench
we see each other’s faces
eyes
hands
those things we never would
just passing by, barely a glance,
forgotten.
============
Stephen Tee c 2008
- Stephen Tee