Oh, not again; you’ve said it all before.
Hooligans? What rot.
(Those young and
roisterous merry ones?)
All right; there’s Jerry.
Young? Not very,
no. I know...his clothes..
(Stuffed full of
love
That gay, that trusting
heart,
That child-like
heart, hops
Under there,
Beneath that singing
shirt).
He can get steam up, yes.
God bless him, too,
For that.
(He wraps his heart
around the weak,
He curls their hurt
beneath that blinding shirt;
I’ve seen the
bullies dodge his bloody fists).
Laughing? Oh, yes,
indeed, I’m laughing -
Loud, loud, loud.
Cat’s whiskers, woman, is life to be so gloomy?
(Can’t mercy grin
while lugging up the fallen?
In Christ, can’t you
laugh too?)
Oh, no, not running on again, (again, again, again,
You carping, blind
and silly,
Silly woman and
corrosive...)
Indeed, there’s Pablo, too.
You know him?
Runty, ferret-eyed and sly,
And smoking like a foundry;
Just twelve.
You’d call him a lout?
A long-haired sneak?
Well, I can’t stop you.
(But fish out from
your cliché- clouded mind
Some words
To sear his dad and
brand his mother with
“Good souls; they do
so much...” for others add.
Out, out, out, each
evening of the week,
Serving others in
the name of love.
Say that,
He’s frightened of
his mum and dad;
Say “frightened
sick,” my woman, “frightened sick.”)
Good souls that do so much?
(Ask Pablo what they
do
To him, our lout,
our hooligan,,
An outcast, wounded
boy).
Sebastian; No?
You don’t?
Of course, you wouldn’t.
(His name is
something else,
Respectable.
Sebastian’s a title,
though; they call him
Bastard,
Just for short,
And clap the
staggering blows of love
Upon his leather
back
And set him in the
pattern.)
He’s needed too, you know.
All needed.
Well, woman, I don’t know...
(Don’t ask me how,
or why, or when -
His mother didn’t
need him)
Sebastian? It’s an
honest name.
(So’s bastard, just
for long;
The length of life,
A vivid thread to
give identity
To you and me,
Such drab, drab
creatures both)
Look like?
Sebastian is gay and long,
Long hair, long trousers, long experience;
Such bright blond hair
That softly...
(Dances on his
shoulders
Hunched
Above his cue for
billiards
Or for life.
He laughs too.
Do you laugh very
often?
Yet you were born in
wedlock,
Not in deadlock.)
Weren’t you?
Sorry. I was
wondering.
Don’t make me more than angry.
(Your “hooligans”
are held in trust
And you shall not go
tattling,
Malicious, village
lady-fair,
You poisonous old
trout.)
“They’ve broke a chair, they’ve broke a light...”
(They’ve broken
homes, they’ve broken hearts)
“...it’s shockin’, really dreadful.
Them noisy bikes,
An’ greasy hair an’ long,
All ’angin’ down their shoulders;
It’s not right, that; it’s not, y’know.
They ought to stop it, now.
The damage...”
(They should have
stopped the damage years
ago)
“Well, me an’ Mrs. Wells were down,
On Monday;
The library it was; well, really..
I mean, I know I’m not a prude
But some things...
Drugs, too, I shouldn’t wonder...
Well; maybe I shouldn’t
But what I’ve always said,
Them ’ooligans
Them dirty tykes,
They smoke an’ drink an’ swear -
An’ worse...
Oh no, I’ve never been, not club night.
I wouldn’t dare. I
mean
You never know;
They might...well, anything.
It’s got to stop.
It can’t go on; it’s plain
Disgustin’.
We want ’em out of ’ere;
This is the village ’all, after all.”
After all, they want them
Out of here.
I wonder where God wants them
In the pattern?
