Jun 2019
JOLLY GOOD SHOW
All day
stuck up this ****** tree
in the middle of ****** nowhere.
All the landscape
shrunk to this crossroads
like the cross-hairs
on a rifle sight
brings the distance
into focus.
“****** Nora! ”
He swears to himself and laughs.
His mother’s name was Nora.
Always thought it was hilarious
to swear by her.
Remembers one time as a boy
swearing at her:
“And eh by gum
she didn’t half hit me hard! ”
“Blood seeping through the gum
still taste the taste of it on my tongue
****** ‘orrible it was!
Hated her ever since.”
“Now, look whatcha made me done! ”
she hollered at him.
“Yes…sorry our Mum! ”
He didn’t dare cry
‘cos she’d hit for crying!
“She was a hard one…our Mum!
Had to be with us ****** lot!
She were fun though when she were happy! ”
He hoped to God
that his man would come
so he could **** him
and be done.
Didn’t know him
from Adam
(leader of the insurgents
capable of getting men around him) .
“Dangerously charismatic! ”
Better dead
to keep the British peace alive
as the Empire lay dying.
The sun setting
dying him a golden brown.
“If he don’t come soon
I won’t have the light to **** him.”
“Remembering shooting game with our Dad
rabbit…pheasant...up ‘eath in sunlight
. . .such as this.”
The dangly ****** rabbit
turning into next night’s stew
eating a celebration
of what you can do
- do well...****.
How he came to be here
up a ****** gum tree
rifle in hand…staring
waiting for a man to ****.
Same ****** thing.
Simple ****** plan!
Waiting 3 days now
and no man.
“Keep your position ...over.”
“Maintain radio silence.”
“Report in when job done.”
“Roger ok that...over & out.”
“Eager to get job done so I can go ****** ‘ome!”
“Didn’t believe it myself
until I seed it! ”
Dot in the distance
translating itself into a man.
Just enough light left
for killing.
“And now, put out the light
...put out the light! ”
He muttered to himself.
****** Othello!
The only Shakespeare he knew.
“A lass I once knew
A real brain & chatter box! ”
“I only ever wanted to get into her knickers
& the only way to do so was to listen…so I listened.”
“Trying to teach ****** me Proper English
and she ****** well Scottish!
****** cheek!
...och aye...but nooo! ”
The crossroads funnel him into
the killing spot
“Trot trot trot trot!
like THE HIGHWAYMAN!
Noyes! No...yes!
Why think of
Marjorie Wallace and her ****** poetry now!
No poetry in killing
just plain ****** prose.
Dead is dead is dead.
A blown rose
fading on the periphery of his vision.
The cross-hairs
come to rest
like a deadly spider
on the rider’s face.
He’s ****** grinning.
The man doesn’t even know
he’s already dead!
Won’t even know what’***** him!
(Probably thinking of a sweetheart
and getting her into ****** bed)
Just like I am.
Just the gentlest of squeezes
like stroking a lassie’s ****
(Oh Marjorie ****** Wallace!)
Then - that’s it!
The rifle spits and speaks
in the language of the dead
and only one man understands
what’s said.
And where there was a head
there is now no head.
You see it only
for the briefest of seconds
and can’t really believe it!
How the head blossoms!
Like a sudden flower
and then fades
in that
instant.
Mindless now...
he plucks the faded rose
(or whatever it is it’s called around here)
reminds him of
England.
Pops it into
an amo pocket.
Good clean ****.
Head shot – one shot.
Tries to pretend...
but it always hits him hard
taking a closer look
at his handiwork.
Kicks the body:
“You poor stupid ****** ******! ”
“A man no less a man
than I am...”
Faceless.
Lying there in the dirt
as he were only having a kip.
Becoming dirt.
Breaks radio silence:
“Come and ****** well pick me up! ”
“Jolly well done! ”
The radio cackles back.
“Jolly good show! ”
All day
stuck up this ****** tree
in the middle of ****** nowhere.
All the landscape
shrunk to this crossroads
like the cross-hairs
on a rifle sight
brings the distance
into focus.
“****** Nora! ”
He swears to himself and laughs.
His mother’s name was Nora.
Always thought it was hilarious
to swear by her.
Remembers one time as a boy
swearing at her:
“And eh by gum
she didn’t half hit me hard! ”
“Blood seeping through the gum
still taste the taste of it on my tongue
****** ‘orrible it was!
Hated her ever since.”
“Now, look whatcha made me done! ”
she hollered at him.
“Yes…sorry our Mum! ”
He didn’t dare cry
‘cos she’d hit for crying!
“She was a hard one…our Mum!
Had to be with us ****** lot!
She were fun though when she were happy! ”
He hoped to God
that his man would come
so he could **** him
and be done.
Didn’t know him
from Adam
(leader of the insurgents
capable of getting men around him) .
“Dangerously charismatic! ”
Better dead
to keep the British peace alive
as the Empire lay dying.
The sun setting
dying him a golden brown.
“If he don’t come soon
I won’t have the light to **** him.”
“Remembering shooting game with our Dad
rabbit…pheasant...up ‘eath in sunlight
. . .such as this.”
The dangly ****** rabbit
turning into next night’s stew
eating a celebration
of what you can do
- do well...****.
How he came to be here
up a ****** gum tree
rifle in hand…staring
waiting for a man to ****.
Same ****** thing.
Simple ****** plan!
Waiting 3 days now
and no man.
“Keep your position ...over.”
“Maintain radio silence.”
“Report in when job done.”
“Roger ok that...over & out.”
“Eager to get job done so I can go ****** ‘ome!”
“Didn’t believe it myself
until I seed it! ”
Dot in the distance
translating itself into a man.
Just enough light left
for killing.
“And now, put out the light
...put out the light! ”
He muttered to himself.
****** Othello!
The only Shakespeare he knew.
“A lass I once knew
A real brain & chatter box! ”
“I only ever wanted to get into her knickers
& the only way to do so was to listen…so I listened.”
“Trying to teach ****** me Proper English
and she ****** well Scottish!
****** cheek!
...och aye...but nooo! ”
The crossroads funnel him into
the killing spot
“Trot trot trot trot!
like THE HIGHWAYMAN!
Noyes! No...yes!
Why think of
Marjorie Wallace and her ****** poetry now!
No poetry in killing
just plain ****** prose.
Dead is dead is dead.
A blown rose
fading on the periphery of his vision.
The cross-hairs
come to rest
like a deadly spider
on the rider’s face.
He’s ****** grinning.
The man doesn’t even know
he’s already dead!
Won’t even know what’***** him!
(Probably thinking of a sweetheart
and getting her into ****** bed)
Just like I am.
Just the gentlest of squeezes
like stroking a lassie’s ****
(Oh Marjorie ****** Wallace!)
Then - that’s it!
The rifle spits and speaks
in the language of the dead
and only one man understands
what’s said.
And where there was a head
there is now no head.
You see it only
for the briefest of seconds
and can’t really believe it!
How the head blossoms!
Like a sudden flower
and then fades
in that
instant.
Mindless now...
he plucks the faded rose
(or whatever it is it’s called around here)
reminds him of
England.
Pops it into
an amo pocket.
Good clean ****.
Head shot – one shot.
Tries to pretend...
but it always hits him hard
taking a closer look
at his handiwork.
Kicks the body:
“You poor stupid ****** ******! ”
“A man no less a man
than I am...”
Faceless.
Lying there in the dirt
as he were only having a kip.
Becoming dirt.
Breaks radio silence:
“Come and ****** well pick me up! ”
“Jolly well done! ”
The radio cackles back.
“Jolly good show! ”
Brian was the gentlest and nicest man...he had a great sense of humour and always greeted me with a big sweary hello. He was always delighted to see me and I him. He was a delight to be with. I knew he had been in the army but didn't know the where and when of it. One evening as we sat in his room with the sun bathing us in gold he suddenly came out with all of this...inside this lovely man was the practical let's-get-on-with-it killer....a job to be done no more. I've tried to keep his voice and his telling and the sense of self...letting him tell the story as he did that day without any comment.
