18 June 2008

Simon Philbrook

simon philbrook

When he was five
my son fell over running
tumbling on the hard concrete of the playground
I turned around, thinking it someone else's child,
Imagine my fear,

Imagine the sound
of a baton cracking a skull
dull thumps
clumps of brain
splattering freshly creased uniforms
and monk’s robes
and student’s satchels
and the street,

Imagine the shit stinking prison
breathe it in,
skin peeled back
to get the pain right in,
Imagine it,

Imagine 9/11
all of them lined up
and shot,
one by bloody one
in front of you,
3000 is a low estimate for Burma 1988,

Imagine this happening again
and the silence

Imagine winning an election with eighty percent of the vote
then spending seventeen years under "house arrest"
and the silence,

Imagine there's no heaven
some days it's so, so easy,

My son was fine
imagine my relief.

i am a wanker

I didn't know what masturbation was till I was sixteen
My parents, being English,
that if it wasn't talked about it didn't exist,
they had a point
but some fucker could have told me,

I'd heard the words
and laughed on cue at smutty innuendo
but never really knew,

and then kapow!
and how!

and then jenny
(names have been changed to protect the innocent)
jenny who showed me, taught me, teased and pleased me,
jenny who knew that wanking is just great,

she waited till we'd dated for a month or so
and then (me twenty-one her twenty)
she let go her secrets,
"there is no shame in sex"
cannot be taught
it must be bought through experience
through girls (or boys) who are

she stripped us naked
and demanded I wank
show her how I "crank it off" (laughter)
and then she showed me
and I can't think of anything
more intimate
more revealing
more sexually beautiful
than what she taught me,

and now
when someone calls me
a stupid wanker
it is "stupid" I object to.

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