I was given a corpse the other week -
It didn’t work:
Our Stan said he knew a bloke
Could sort it out, no problem;
Make it better than magic mushrooms
In our mother’s tea.
I said – “you’ve always been fucking thick,”
But he said, “nah mate, pukka stuff –
Rolling ribs, synapse injection, Tento brakes;
You name it, it’ll bark.”
So I believe him,
Slimy greaseball that he is.

I saw this kid playing
The other day, working his heart out
To dig up the goalposts
On the pitch over the road –
When he changed sides.
I ran across and stuck an orange
In his mouth – he was gobstruck.
I always think it’s nice when people notice
You’re making an effort.

Anyway, my brother comes round
Regular on Tuesday for a shag,
So before he and the missus
Get distracted I tell him
I’m up for it – which worries him.
He frowns for a bit then says
“You had me wondering, there.
Ok, leave it in a bin bag
Outside at 4 o’ clock, Thursday morning,
With the word ‘Petunia’s’ painted on in yellow.”
He never thinks of the obvious –
It’s always been his trouble,
So I quietly say,
“Yeah, but what if it’s Rose’s?”

from: Jane Holiday, Cape Town, South Africa.
Every Morning I Think Of Suicide Every morning I think of suicide But I'm still here Along with a million or so Other fainthearts Who Own no guns, Are scared of blood, Can't screw enough pills From the doctor, Have blunt kitchen knives Or no money for rat poison And lack imagination To devise other exits. So every morning, Along with a million or so Other fainthearts I am still here.

from:

Jane Holiday, Cape Town, South Africa.

from:

Chandra Kapoor
Wolverhampton

from:

Brendan Hawthorne,
Wednesbury

One Night My Parents Had A Fight

One night
My parents
Had a fight.

They broke
A dinner service
And spoke of divorce.

The next day
They were calm.
Mother went to stay
With a friend -
She took me along -

When we returned,
They fought again,
Smashing two chairs
And a windowpane,
Four glass ashtrays
And a Pyrex dish.

At last they split -
My parents -
Had enough of it.
My mum took me of course.
After the divorce
We lived
Quietly.

Then she remarried
A faceless man.
He treats her
The best he can.
They never fight,
They never shout,
And in the night
I feel left out.

One night
I killed my stepdad
In a fight.

families

I'm trying to be responsible
But I can't get past one sentence.
So I'm writing it as it is
Whether it's right or wrong.

Don't talk to me about family values
Fuck you, get out of my thought.
Who are you to judge me?
I'm not your puppet any more.
Don't have to listen to your bullshit.

Families, families,
Mine has been shred to pieces.
No more strings to hang on to,
The furniture is scattered. You don't own me.

Religion keeps families together?
Then fuck your religion.
It's only a fashion statement
To see who walks in with the designer suit.
Who's rich, who's poor.

"Disowned", "disowned" how I hate this word.
Do you know the meaning of the word?
Do you know what you have said?

I put time and devotion into this family,
Never said a bad word.
Did what you said,
To never let a frown upon your head.
How I yearned to hear your praise.

"Respect your elders."
I cast mine into the sea of the unknown.

Obvious Conclusion

The loneliest tables
stand in the darkest of corners
They are made lonelier
when seating the single diner
who is uncomfortably sitting
at a place setting for four
No-one can read his tears
through the fog of smokers
and burning chip fat
that reddens his eyes and lungs
irritating the life out of him
as he remembers how
she cooked everything for him
when not in the process of
dutifully ironing the
shirts and trousers
of middle management
He never contemplated that
she would leave him
not now when the kids had grown up
and her looks had started to fade
like the heat of his plate
But she did
and he still doesn’t know why
He smoothes out the creases
on his sleeves and plays around
with his food
He lost it all in a moment of madness
His hard-bitten fingernails
stand testimony to the snags
encountered when taking
everything for granted
A vague smile escapes his face
and reaches out to the waitress
whose breasts strain at
the press-stud prison gates
of nylon overalls
In one movement
she scoops up his plate
and slam-skims a bowl
of steaming apple dumpling
across the Formica top table
chased by a clattering spoon
His wife used to cook like that
And after all these years he cries
because the custard is still too thin

From Geoff William, Ostrava - Vyskovice, Czech Replubic

You're Middle Class, My Son

From Steve Urwin, Consett, Co Durham

Another Teenager Wants a Motorbike
Another Parent Terrified

I ran from the middle classes
down, deep into the slums
where I played, childlike with the Blacks and Jews.
I climbed into Society, talked with the intelligentsia and the wealthy
despising the lot of them.
I walked behind barriers, watched foreign films,
sank into the city, then escaped into the hills to breathe.
In Stepney and Pimlico I found a new life,
and in the coloured streets of Nottingham
or the roaring orange city of Liverpool:
there I met people with faces, thought I understood them.

I laughed at the barriers, ridiculed walls,
but feared the Bomb - it is spelt with a capital -
just like God, only more terrifying - and more real
I was a Liberal - this was rebellion.
I wore dark glasses and black shirts, refused to wear a tie,
wrote angry letters to newspapers, kicked at my chains.
I REFUSE - "You have to be different, don't you?"
YES I DO. This was my purpose, to break free, to rebel.
They wanted to sentence me to my class,
trap me in a suburban home
and leave me to suffocate.

Bloody death-trap
You're not having one and that's that

Ah Mam, our Stuart's got one
Me Auntie Trisha lets him keep it in the utility room

Aye, well, I'm not your Auntie Trisha
Try asking your father, and boy, will you get the answer

I'M SICK OF YOU LOT
YOU NEVER LET US DO OWT!

Be that as maybe but what happens
If you have an accident?

And anyroad, I thought you were taking A-levels
What'll you do for petrol?

I'll manage
Part-time job or summat

Pah! You, job? Couldn't even hack a paper round, sunshine
We'll be paying your way till Hell freezes over

If it's this roof you're under
It's no bloody motor

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Another Teenager Wants a Motorbike Another Parent Terrified
Badge of Dishonour
Every Morning I Think Of Suicide
families
Obvious Conclusion
One Night My Parents Had A Fight
Wind Up Dead
You're Middle Class, My Son
Menu


	From Wendy Webb Badge of Dishonour
	William, crowned with all life has to offer, juvenilia for a glittering future of fancy dress and gesture, a royal House of Windsor. For a boys' night out, Wales chose with discretion. No lion heart, but wild, bestial, boyish fun. Choice does not extend to brothers; make their mistakes for them, escape without a scrape, unshockable. Time to march, ticking, undercover. "Be a man, Bro."

THE FIRING SQUAD Series 3 No.4 Dysfunctional Families

Every Morning I Think Of Suicide

Obvious Conclusion

THE FIRING SQUAD

Series 3 No.4
Dysfunctional Families