Sutcliffe brings
a magazine
to school
(his old man's
he tells us)
and we group in
under the shelter
near the outside bogs.
He opens it
page by page;
his fingers shaky,
his eyes, blue,
enlarged,
peer the page.
Look at the state
of her,
O’Brien says.
I look over
his shoulder
at the naked dame.
Can you imagine
Miss A doing this
from our old school?
I suggest.
Don't make me puke,
O’Brien says.
What the feck's that?
Sutcliffe asks,
pointing a finger.
It's where
you were born from,
Davies says.
Can't be,
Sutcliffe says,
I was born
in Guy's hospital.
Your mother,
poor cow,
has one of those,
O’Brien says.
Sutcliffe pulls a face
as if he'd bitten
a lemon.
Shan't look at her
the same way again,
he replies.
Turn the page,
I say,
see something other.
He turns the page,
a centrefold,
opens it out,
arms outstretched,
eyes widening.
Wouldn’t say no
to her,
O’Brien says,
scanning in
like a swooping air plane
to dive bomb.
Me, neither,
Sutcliffe mutters.
I see Sutcliffe's
inky fingers shake
on the edges
of the magazine;
the woman has big eyes
peering out,
her nose has an air
of: had your gawk?
We just stare,
no place
to waste words,
we stand,
open mouthed
and don’t talk.
Dec 10, 2014
Dec 10, 2014 at 2:41 AM UTC
Sutcliffe brings
a magazine
to school
(his old man's
he tells us)
and we group in
under the shelter
near the outside bogs.
He opens it
page by page;
his fingers shaky,
his eyes, blue,
enlarged,
peer the page.
Look at the state
of her,
O’Brien says.
I look over
his shoulder
at the naked dame.
Can you imagine
Miss A doing this
from our old school?
I suggest.
Don't make me puke,
O’Brien says.
What the feck's that?
Sutcliffe asks,
pointing a finger.
It's where
you were born from,
Davies says.
Can't be,
Sutcliffe says,
I was born
in Guy's hospital.
Your mother,
poor cow,
has one of those,
O’Brien says.
Sutcliffe pulls a face
as if he'd bitten
a lemon.
Shan't look at her
the same way again,
he replies.
Turn the page,
I say,
see something other.
He turns the page,
a centrefold,
opens it out,
arms outstretched,
eyes widening.
Wouldn’t say no
to her,
O’Brien says,
scanning in
like a swooping air plane
to dive bomb.
Me, neither,
Sutcliffe mutters.
I see Sutcliffe's
inky fingers shake
on the edges
of the magazine;
the woman has big eyes
peering out,
her nose has an air
of: had your gawk?
We just stare,
no place
to waste words,
we stand,
open mouthed
and don’t talk.
SCHOOL BOYS AND AMEN'S MAGAZINE IN 1959.
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