When dem is hungry
Mans gone stick you
Merk you for your kebab
Not no bollocks job, trust.
Straight up knife light ribs tight.
Blood flows from bleeding spa
Faces like drawn got sour
Shank’s still shining. Blades bent blunt.
In the gutter. Floating in endz dirt water
Youts all crying. Shades tipped down.
Little girl runs, mother ignores.
NY baseball cap shielding eyes
Your little brother dies
While your father stands among yous packka and cries.
Kfc paper lines aisle of funereal prosession
As youts father carries body over yonder
Mother and sister trip down to depression
And mans stand still, shake hands, click fingers, touch fists and wonder.
Old lady passes. Sucks her teeth and says ‘young people.’
Her teeth clenched tight and her hands they tremble
Walks on wheeling her chequered trolley past the dawn.
And she yawns
And the mother of the dying brother cries ‘you old woman. Know nothing of this.’
The ones arrive all flashing cars and tightness
All clear the scene and semi racist politeness
And people leave and leave dead youth
To uniformed white mans in search of dead truth
Thomas Clancy has been described by some as one of the great young talents of British theatre. He spends his time in London writing plays and working at the Royal Court.
No comments:
Post a Comment