Sutcliffe, O’Brien and you
Used to wander about the
Bombsites after school, the
Keep Out signs ignored,
The catapults in the back
Pockets to hit at cans or
Bottles or windows if there
Were any left in the empty
Shell houses of the bombed
Out homes. Dad said there
Could be unexploded bombs
Here, Sutcliffe said, his blue
Eyes and blonde hair catching
The day’s afternoon light, his
Grey flannel trousers and blue
Blazer stained with food and
Dust. O’Brien lit a crafty ***
And passed to you to take a drag.
You coughed and passed it back,
Clambering the bricks to broken
Stairs to a higher landing where
You thought ghosts might hang
In danky rooms or smelly attics
Where light shone through the
Broken tiles. O’Brien ******
Against a wall, the cigarette
Hanging from his lower lip.
Sutcliffe sniffed the air and
Scratched his **** and you
Standing on the creaky stair
Pondered who stood or lived
Here before the bomb dropped
From the threatening sky and
They wondering if they’d live
Or die. Bet this was the bedroom,
O’Brien said, and he and she
Laid out here having ******
When the bomb went off.
Sutcliffe sniggered, taking
O’Brien’s cigarette for a quick
Puff and handing to you with
Dampened end. What a way
To die though, Sutcliffe said,
Him not knowing the ins and
Outs of *** or death by bombs
Or what’d be left after bombs
Dropped. Probably some old
**** who lived alone, O’Brien
Conceded, staring at the sky
Through the hole in ceiling,
Without much concern and
Little feeling. You reflected
On his words and the stink
Of **** and damp and empty
Shell, the echo of yesteryears,
The ghosting wanderings at
Night and cold captured fears.
Apr 30, 2016
Apr 30, 2016 at 4:44 AM UTC
Sutcliffe, O’Brien and you
Used to wander about the
Bombsites after school, the
Keep Out signs ignored,
The catapults in the back
Pockets to hit at cans or
Bottles or windows if there
Were any left in the empty
Shell houses of the bombed
Out homes. Dad said there
Could be unexploded bombs
Here, Sutcliffe said, his blue
Eyes and blonde hair catching
The day’s afternoon light, his
Grey flannel trousers and blue
Blazer stained with food and
Dust. O’Brien lit a crafty ***
And passed to you to take a drag.
You coughed and passed it back,
Clambering the bricks to broken
Stairs to a higher landing where
You thought ghosts might hang
In danky rooms or smelly attics
Where light shone through the
Broken tiles. O’Brien ******
Against a wall, the cigarette
Hanging from his lower lip.
Sutcliffe sniffed the air and
Scratched his **** and you
Standing on the creaky stair
Pondered who stood or lived
Here before the bomb dropped
From the threatening sky and
They wondering if they’d live
Or die. Bet this was the bedroom,
O’Brien said, and he and she
Laid out here having ******
When the bomb went off.
Sutcliffe sniggered, taking
O’Brien’s cigarette for a quick
Puff and handing to you with
Dampened end. What a way
To die though, Sutcliffe said,
Him not knowing the ins and
Outs of *** or death by bombs
Or what’d be left after bombs
Dropped. Probably some old
**** who lived alone, O’Brien
Conceded, staring at the sky
Through the hole in ceiling,
Without much concern and
Little feeling. You reflected
On his words and the stink
Of **** and damp and empty
Shell, the echo of yesteryears,
The ghosting wanderings at
Night and cold captured fears.
BOY IN 1950S LONDON ON BOMBSITES.
Request permission to use this poem