Rough

I have killed

As a fifteen year old youth I worked in the local slaughter house, earning pocket money for the summer holidays, picking up enough cash for Friday nights at the YMCA; the discotheque where I splashed on Brut aux de cologne (before it became a mass consumer commodity)

I poured scent to cover up the stench of blood and sweat and fear; the fear of the cornered sheep who knew from the ambient noise, and the putrid smell, that their time would very soon be up

My time also done; the highly flighty young girls entirely unimpressed with my disk jockey selections (Pink Floyd, Frank Zappa and the like), they breezed off to more more soulful & romantic liaisons; who knows, even to find a little bit of rough

Not that the rough boys ever worked the slaughterhouse; no, mostly the rough boys were cowards and bullies, synthetic tough guys, with no real fibre, or backbone, or steel

The sort of boys who worked best in gangs, or who took their strength from their weapons of choice, the sort of young men who might have tried it on with me, until they heard that already I was a killer

I had killed before

It was a long time ago, I only mention it now, as we collectively undress, more as a point of disclosure, to let you know of what I was once capable.

It took a while to learn to stand up to bullies; perhaps less time to move on to the more expensive aromatics

I hope that gives you some certainty, perhaps increases your expectations, of my future intentions




a poem from the collection Into the Present Decade - Love with Droplets of Joy available by clicking on the link