PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

Grandaddy, they killed me. Grandad, there are electric lights shining in

the window. You weren't too good at living in this world, sir. Neither

am I.

Let's be honest, I never knew you. I used to watch your heavy eyes, scared

when I was younger. Now, G.D. -- I don't look at anything.

Your opinions came from UTV. VOice heavy and flat like Guinness. Watch without

interest when Granny gave us a pound. Biscuits. Brilliant.

I'm sure I cut some figure like a girl on your sofa, discomfort in the

dust. I'm sure you slept with my Grandma. Yuk. I prefer you not to be human.

Grandaddy, they scooped out my eyes with spoons and I see stainless steel

in the world. Grandad I sick ashes. You're beyond help now. Am I? Help.

Did you see the little card they made? It said your name, address (11 ------

Street) and a charming poem which meant absolutely nothing.

In the picture you looked like nothing. The gloss was embarassing.

Last year I touched your fingers. Daddy made me. Just lumps, they were,

almost spitefully cold. It was the only time we touched.

There was a smell. I thought of lifting up

your head, to see the cotton wool. The cotton wool they gave you

for a brain.

And I tried to think of death. I stood at that casket a while.

They may have thought 'He's trying to come to terms with death'.

No. Nothing. I was trying to see it. Anything. Or to feel.

Nothing. No visceral to evoke from that meat. God, it was pathetic.



It was a Thursday you died. The drink or the fegs, most likely,

thats what they thought.

The dullness of every day. That's what I knew.

Daddy drank two bottles of

wine and cried. I felt awkward. I always imagined a death to be a

savage tragedy -- a demonic beauty. But she walked in the door -- fat,

acne'd middle aged. A voice like a donkey. I didn't know how to act.

Tea and biscuits just weren't appropriate. We sat there and smoked.

Yellowed your ceiling. Granny's ceiling now. You're nothing.

And death sat in silence and bored us to tears.

The funeral tho -- that was some show. The priest acted like

it was the first time

anyone

had ever died. Said you fished; were patient. 'Let us learn from

Terry...' HA. I bet that came to him over his tuna sandwich. Cunt.

And they sunk you with Catholic velvet mythology. Babies cried for

their rusks. The church chamber redolent, eletric tears...

What a cop out, death. How can I speak of it...

there are men who's air is bullets. There are girls who's food is

air. And there are cemeteries full of emptiness. And there's you

theres your daddy, theres my daddy, theres me. Oh, me.

You gave, taught me nothing. This is not a reproach. Just empty

word.

You passed me your pissed stained genes. I will piss them on too.

Next month, a whole year asleep. Is it half as dull up there?

Or down, or whatever.

The microbe that ate your cotton wool brain is dead now and ate

too, and its assassin gone also. I wonder will that cotton

escape the cemetery...

I've lied of course. Death got to have one ephemeral vitality...

Your smoky casket night. In the kitchen, me, alone. I saw your

final carryout in the fridge. I wanted it, my God I desired it!

Only then was there beauty; but now...

sixty - four years. I bet you wish you had slept more.

Yaaaaaaaaaawn...

I'll stand in that Saturday cemetery. My hair will be shorter.

I'll mourn yer meat truck, Grandad. Bored to death.