[Here is the latest (fifth) installment of 17, comprising Section V entitled Fall and Song #5 entitled Song for a Guy. The ‘songs’ seem to be taking over from the sections, as this long grim poem unfolds.]

 

V Fall

Mike hates Autumn:

the night drawing in,

the leaves falling prettily from the trees,

harvest, thanksgiving,

Dad gone with a thump, Mum burning

love notes, bank statements, pretty clothes in the dustbin next to the coal shed,

shedding tears,

blood dribbling from her nose, the pink blue flicker

of the paraffin fire barely warming them,

as next door’s fireworks go up on Bonfire Night

and they light up a guy.

 

Song #5 Song for a Guy

The girls on YouTube drool over Guido’s

barber’s shop hashtag Occupy coiffure

and swoon over Tito’s

early morning twitter chorus of camp fake news.

The bonnie prince coming over the ocean

with lance and unicorn

and the slender man waiting in the shadows

to sweep one special one away.

Guys queue up to chat.

 

On Bonfire Night the TV is replete

with public health announcements about burnt fingers

and scarred faces and plastic surgery,

prosthetic limbs and surgical masks,

as intercontinental ballistic missiles soar thrillingly into the sky,

and Catherine is tortured on a wheel.

and effigies and sausages are toasted on stakes.

“That Guido’s so into you,” Sophie gushes.

“That Tito is so cute. Such a shame he’s gay,” Em

gigglingly adds.

“Whatever!” someone posts

and gets a smiley face in reply.

The Goth girl in the corner

with the hashtags and the dreadlocks

and the attitude problem

and parent-approved dentistry student boyfriend

is watching online streaming video of infidels

beheaded and burnt alive,

Zwingli slain on a snow-swept mountainside

fighting for the right to eat blood pudding on Good Friday,

sangria puked up by Sloane Rangers all over the après ski,

as minarets rival the Matterhorn and the downed towers

of Manhattan and the moon descends unwatched

through a starless streetlamp-lit stretch of urban sky.