SUNDAY MORNING                                                                                                                                    

Belfast 1970, a grey sky hung
Mucus of tar, the scent of hatred
And spent shells residued.

A woman loved for a moment

By the enemy, cried like a gull

Embedded in an oil-slick, somewhere

Off the coastline of my heart.

The etched guilt of a one-night stand
Tied to the lamp-post. Some men
Passed wrenching traitor, slut, cunt,
And greenhorns from their throats,

That slithered on the black tar

Of her breasts, seeping into

The feathers of her heart.

My Father’s Bedroom

A single bed and someone's

discarded wardrobe.

One suit hanging like

your life, your death.

The thick scent of your grease

And body odour I recall

familiar from my childhood.

The grime of your toil lingered

there on the pillow and the soiled

bedclothes of your dreams.

I went to the window and lifted

the blemished fragile curtain,

my breath fell with yours, stale

on the cold transparency.

I left with nothing, apart from

that thick scent I thought

was lost until today.

OLDE ARDOYNE

The family boarded a plane in London

It taxied on a Belfast runway 1967.

In a taxi going through the hills of Antrim

My mother’s southern view of Ireland

Quaint cottages, livestock and freedom

as if we were cycling through romantic Ireland.  

the car fell from the hills through Ligoniel

along the Crumlin Road and turned left into Ardoyne.   

My fathers bastard world the one he saw waking up

as an infant in a basket by a blood red door.  

I woke in a Dickensian world with girls in ropes

swinging around lampposts and boys playing

football in the street. 

My dad said there’s your school it stood lonely like a prison

surrounded by a spiked fence and a dirty red brick wall

with three layers of rusted barbed wire.

We stayed at my aunt Sarah’s

a mill worker with three fingers missing,

drab mousy hair who always wore an apron

and knelt scrubbing the front step as if waiting for god

or some haloed man to drift into her terraced house.  

I slept on a mattress on a lino floor

looking up at a sacred heart picture

scratching away fleas and listening

to banshees in the back alley.

ONE FOR THE ROAD

PART2.

One of the first flickering of violence I seen from the front window in Herbert street

as if on a wide screen TV. in high definition.  The b-special numbers flashed in the full moon light chasing a guy along the street, a trundgen caught the back of his legs and brought him down into the gutter outside my window.  I stood there in my brothers hand me down pyjamas and beside me on the wall was a picture of Jesus in a crown of thorns with blood running down his face lit by a little red cross.  They kicked him into the gutter calling him a fenian bastard, words I didn't understand but this scene became the norm for thirty years.  they jumped on his head in hob-nailed boots and open his head like a tomato, I looked to him and the picture of Jesus and threw up all over the lino floor.  my mother rushed in and said don't worry son it will be ok and pulled the curtain before removing my pyjamas and mopping up.  She tucked me into the mattress on the floor kissed me and said don't worry ade everything will be ok.  The next morning on the way to Mulhollands shop for broken biscuits, I checked the path for blood to make sure I wasn't dreaming but the blood was scrubbed clean and stained in bleach.

A COLD SON OF A BITCH

                                                        ‘yet why not say what happened’

                                                                                          Robert Lowell

John looked from the kitchen window, the sink he stood by was like the interior of a

well worn tea pot or the inside of his lungs sucking on yet another cigarette.

The street light threw a subtle pastel glow on the still housing estate, the red rusted

Volkswagen beetle stood like a monument to his life.  He told himself, ‘ill have to get

stuck in and fix that car tomorrow’.  He dropped a sleeping pill and rinsed it down

with a cold swig of tea and ‘ill have to clean this place’ he told himself

climbing the stairs.  He dreamed the usual sixty year old dream of young ladies

running naked through summer meadows.  When he woke it was those abstract

images of memory that disturbed him and lingered like a blunt saw through his aching

heart.  It’s a suffering fucking hell he told himself throwing cold water over his face

as if extinguishing the image in the mirror and the reality of his bald head and pointed

features.   The stench of his loss lingered with every step he took down those steps

where once walked the wife and mother of his dreams.  He could almost see her

walking down those stairs to meet the day with that irish strength that pushed the sore

reality to the ground.  Im a loser he told himself a stupid bastard remembering being

an infant in a basket found on a front door,  a single droplet of salted tear fell from

his hard Belfast exterior he brushed  the tear aside like the murdering bullet from an

armalite rifle.  As he ejected the stale teabags from the teapot he thought I have to go

doctors today and get that dla form filled in and get a mobility allowance and have a

new car instead of that almost unrepairable rusted old banger.  He remembered how

the car looked in the nights subtle pastel glow,  and said god you’re a bastard you and

your cold light of morning.

He sat in the doctors waiting room trying to remember good times like his first born

or his wedding day but this annoying ugly kid kept shoving leaflets in his face about

cancer of the bollox and depression.  Just as he was about to smack the kid up the

head he heard the broken english voice of the Pakistani doctor call his name on the

tanoi like a conductor on a bus.  As the doctor filled in a section of the dla form and

wrote some prescriptions for depression angina headaches and the general feeling

that life is a sick load of balls. John was calling him a black bastard in his mind

because he asked him exaggerate his findings on the form and received instead

a lecture on the ethics of medicine.  John was a bigot he didn’t know how to be

anything else, he hated blacks, pakis, Chinese  as well as all those beautiful

women he could not have and especially that bitch that left him after thirty one years 

and six children.  He walked home through the maze of housing estates with his bag

of pills for every ill but the aching black hole in his heart.  Going past the derelict

houses full of grafitti he remembered the night the police man called.

The shadow of black cap was cast off and fell through the hall like the black cloud of

Depression,  ‘your daughters have been searching for you’ screeched, crashing with a

families laughter.  Those words rang through his mind like the word bastard the winds

of a harsh winter reminding him that life can be a cold son of a bitch.  He passed the

old decrepid bettle without an engine with out much hope of ever pumping fluid

through its rotten pipes.  He opened the front door and half expected his wife to pass

him and his children playing music and busying around the house,  instead he was met

by the grey stench of loneliness.  He stood by the sink steadying himself as those

words pounded through his head he washed down paracetamol and an anti depressant.

His head pounded filled with anxiety he staggered into the living room and threw

himself on the sofa putting his feet up on the coffee table between the carbareatur .

And the innards of a TV he was trying to fix.  He then stood up over the hearth and

placed a little blue tablet below his tongue and his heart rate began to fall and he was

able to catch his breath and relax.  He climbed the stairs and threw himself on the

single bed this is my bed I must lie in it he told himself and looked through the ceiling

through the grey sky through the galaxy of stars burning in the darkness of his sight

crumpled up into a little boy and cried himself to sleep.  He woke with the

hope of a thirty year old man he debt,  he bounded out of bed to tackle the unbeatable

day,  ‘you cant beat a good cry’, he told himself throwing water about his worn

features.   He brushed the hair from the nape of his neck to cover his bald patch and

brought it to a point on his forehead.  He sang walking down the stairs a song he sang

to his children when they cried, ‘you don’t have to be  a baaa  aaby to cry’.

Opening a cupboard in the hall he dragged a filthy pair of overalls from a pile of

clothes on the floor and stepped into them tucked his hair into a tweed cap and lifted

the toolbox.  The morning was a little cool but the sun was coming up strong above

the grey housing estate, ‘ this is gonna be a good day’, he thought sucking in the

almost fresh air.  Opening the passanger door of the car creaking like a great sigh

reaching in he delved between unsecured seating  busted wings and an exhaust

hauling a jack from the debris.  He took the cross shaped wheel brace and placed it on

one of the four nuts,  before taking hold he stooped and spat on his hands taking hold

he gripped the brace and turned with all his might and tried to budge the nut as if it

was his last task on earth.  He cursed the car and gave it everything he had, all a sixty

year old worn heart could muster.  A heart like a prune without syrup dried and left in

the searing desert of hurt to long,’ ya red bastard, ya german fucker, ya useless heap

of shit,  he mumbled as the sweat broke on his brow.  He rested a while leaning

against his dream and took a cigarette from his top pocket lit and sucked, he licked the 

beads of sweat that fell across his lips he ran his tongue across his lips once more they

were cold and grey he licked once more unsure and tasted death.

On the morning of his funeral a letter drifted through the letter box, one of his pal-

bearing four sons opened it and it read, we are pleased to inform you that you have

been awarded  motability.

ONE FOR THE ROAD

PART1.

Adrian Peter Patrick or Patrick Peter didn't matter much to him, one was his English side and the other his Irish side he was just a scruffy little street kid.  Born in England

of Irish catholic parents, his mother from Dublin and his father from Belfast they met and wed in London, having a family of six children all born in different towns.

my father was always running from his past we moved house home and school every six months or so.  life for the children was t-chests in the living room and the mark of

pictures on or off the wall marking time to come or go.  my mother was from rat mines on the south side of Dublin, Dublin was a grim city then growing  into a free

state times were hard for Maggie and her children who decided to make a new start

for her children in London.  they had lost their husband and great father at the early age of twenty seven to tuberculosis, Maggie knew she would never be with another

as her and her children had lost their rock so a fresh start in England was the best thing even if her family disapproved, Ireland at that time was married to the church and made it known that Ireland was no place for a single mother to raise five children.

My father was born somewhere and left on a doorstep in north Belfast, both Sarah and him took any information to the grave so whether my name is Adrian peter fox is un-known and I don't really care as I look at this as the beginning.  my father never gave me jack shit so this is the beginning of my end.  my father was running from the  void

in his soul and he found a soul mate in my mothers good charm.  I'm beginning this series of poems and stories with two short stories based on the beginning and the end of their lives together whether their circumstances are true or false is up to you.

THE NOTEBOOK

Although it was late morning the sun was still warm over the south side of

Dublin draining yet another cold winter from the earth and from the hearts of the

poor.  One didn’t have to see the sun or feel the heat to know that summer had arrived

In Rathmines, the stench of the Grand Canal lingered with the cities grime.

As the church bells rang out the Angelus little Maggie blessed herself and

continued polishing Mrs Mahon’s side board.

Every Saturday she helped her mother clean the houses of the rich to help boost her

measly widows pension from the Ministry of Defence.

Her father died a few years previous, cut down is his prime of twenty seven by

Tuberculosis leaving a gaping wound in the hearts of a devoted wife and five

children.

Maggie worked alone this day, her mother was away bringing a life into the world she

was the unofficial midwife of the area.

The duster glided across the dark wood and she escaped into her Hollywood dreams

dancing and singing songs by Judy Garland with her friends on the lochs of the canal,

the stench of the filthy river forgotten.

She took a small worn notebook from the pocket in her drab tunic and flicked through

the pages of scribbled signatures and stopped at Judy Garland, a sense of pride filled

her cheeks recalling the crowds of screaming fans she battled through for that

autograph.  That little book held her treasures and was as important as her prayer

book and her legion with Mary.

She turned to the last page autographed by Rita Hayward, she remembered her

friends not believing her when she showed them the book.

‘You done that yourself’ they said sitting on a bench that ran along the canal, Pam

 and Mary  squeezed in trying to make some sense of the scribbled line.

‘I cant make head nor tail of it’, said Pam,  ‘if you gave our jimmy a bleeding pen

you’d make more sense of it’ said Mary how did you get it they asked together?

well said Maggie’,  ‘I was in Woolworth’s getting threads for my mother when this

blond lady with sunglasses came in the queue behind holding a little girls hand’.

‘Caught ya na na na na na said Pam said, Rita Hayward  hasn’t got

blond hair, ‘I know said Maggie but I remember Rinty the bell boy at the Gresham

had told me she was visiting Dublin.  ‘I read that in her next role she would be blond,

so there’.

‘I waited at the front and when she came out’ ‘I said’,‘ Miss Hayward could I have

your autograph’ , ‘what makes you think I’m Miss Hayward, , she said removing her

 sunglasses . I told her that I read about her next role as a blond and I knew she had a

little girl.

 She said for knowing so much I will sign and handed me an orange from her bag and

asked my name and shook my hand.

The two girls looked again at the scrawl of ink and knew it was Rita Hayward’s

and skipped off home along the path.

Finishing her chores she fell into the role of a movie queen strolling the highly

polished hall.  As she neared the wide steep staircase her hands raised like a ballet

dancer pirouetting in a beautiful gown in place of her drab tunic that hung around her

like an apron of poverty.

No longer a buck toothed thirteen year old Dublin girl she was the queen of

Hollywood.

She strode the staircase with the strength of Joan Crawford or  Bette  Davis

as she neared the last flight her step lightened and fell with a thud into reality and

Mrs Mahon standing at the foot of the stairs.

She looked forward to the one shilling wage and the home made cakes and tarts made

from apples and pears picked from her garden and the goodness of her heart.

As she reached the bottom step Mrs Mahon said in her soft upper class polite tone

’would you do me a favour Maggie’, the little girl nodded in response.

Go to Dan Dooley’s and get an ounce of tea, half a sugar and quarter butter and keep

the change, and Mrs Mahon handed her a shilling  and she put in her pocket with the

notebook.

 A small thin man she knew as Mrs Mahon’s brother in law stepped out of the

darkened room behind her.  ‘I'm going your way’, he said,' I'll walk with you’.

Patti wanted to rush there and back and get her wage and get home quickly.

She looked  at the little man with greased back dark hair wearing a suit that hung on

him like a hospital gown.

She looked into his eyes and sensed a sadness and thought it would be alright to walk

with him and the  big door closed behind them.

As they walked out he felt the heat of summer reacting to the searing heat in his chest

distorting his view, she smelt the strong scent of summer and said in a rush of

embarrassed utterance, ‘ I  take a short cut over two walls and across’ and before she

had time to finish,  It’s quicker this way’,  he said and grabbed her arm  and held her

scream.  He hauled her fresh young body across the garden past the big window of the

lonely house and down the side towards the back, while the flashes of red bricked

confusion seared through her young mind. 

His greased back hair fell about his thin face like a demon revealing his horns,  her

eyes leered with tear filled muffled silence to the rusting roof of the shed.

She cleared those two walls as if they weren’t there, that evil man had tore her soul

her life and legion with Mary.

She clambered towards the canal feeling a hurt worse than the grief of her dad, the

soiled blood ran down her soft white legs.

The next thing she never knew she was waist deep in the canal delving between her

legs washing away the filth of the devil.

The notebook and the money fell from her pocket and washed away in the cities

grime,  her dreams of innocence washed away with the filthy river.

The river bed of broken glass and rotting metal took blood from her feet but she was

numb to feel it through here well worn plim-soles.

She ran through the great doors of the chapel and settled under one of the worn down

pews and huddled into a ball doing penance on the stone cold floor of loss,  the lonely

lingering stench of stained immaculate conceptions engulfed her.

‘ Come out of there child, I thought you were a flea bitten dog, what’s wrong girl’,

said the voice of the servant of god.  Shivering she got of her hunkers and looked at

him in disbelief, why doesn’t he know what happened she said to herself.

A gibberish flow about losing Mrs Mahon’s money came flowing like the confusion

of pollution in her mind.

‘Go home to your mother’, said the priest, ‘God bless you girl’.

Mrs Mahon’s brother in law died of cancer some months later and Maggie knelt in the

chapel praying as the priest looked on.

 THE PAD

I blew in 67' just before the pad as my dad called it was besieged by violence, he was an olde Ardoyner raised on a doorstep in Herbert st.

He never knew his parents just aunt Sarah who was a mill worker at the local flax st mill where she lost

three fingers, sarah was a drab woman who scrubbed her doorstep every day as if awaiting a man of miracle to enter her two up to down home, when she wasn't home she was at the holy cross church praying to the miracle man. I was only six when we went to Ardoyne,  I don't remember to much of living in London just a block of coucil flats where you put rubbish in a shute, a tin pedal car and my brother cutting his hand and being caught in a pram in a lift on the isle of dogs.

The people of Ardoyne became my friends and family, I live in County Armagh now but I still call Ardoyne home, It was like living in one big home, I could go anywhere in the district and i felt so safe and secure,

everyone knew me as their son, to this day i have never met a tighter community of people.  When I first went there it was like stepping back into another time, a Dickensian world of cobble streets where children swung around gas lampost's now conveted to electricity and rough looking boys played football in the street.