Your doctor sounds a lot like my submarine
Chief – the one who pressed me hydraulically
and opened my valves. I had nowhere to go,
Daniel, couldn’t sit with you in Casaletto,
or give a confession somewhere near the Vatican
while hoping I don’t dream of his touch.
All grease, no breath. Where was my plane ticket
to visit you? I still wake up and see his hands
in my pants, and feel the vice on my dick
and feel the pain in trying to tell somebody.
You know who I told? My wife, three weeks
after I met her, three years after it happened.
Now, every Thursday, while you piss yourself
on the number 64, bladder full of espresso, I sit
with a peppermint tea and a room full of men
as we try to move on. And I struggle to tell them
about that time when I was eight
and the camera flashed while I posed on the stairs.
– Aaron Kent
[Edinburgh to Carlisle]
I want to say, oh you poor fucker,
but as soon as we do that we’re fucked.
Let’s always hope it’s a passing shower.
Never let hands settle for more than one hour.
A certain seepage of past malfeasance, yes,
occasionally inundates the day, like the time
Uncle Chuckle bounced me too close on his knee while
Aunty Garter refused every flavour of wafer at tea.
My fingertips entering a turd in a pair of underwear,
infant school, blur, the boy next to me, when he hung
them up, he had red hair, Lloyd something, v quiet.
oh you poor fucker,
pushed down the stairs at 14,
broken ankle during break,
Danny rushed overhead
to the next-door A&E
like a scene out of Gandhi,
all boys’ grammar, you know how it is,
couldn’t get the lick of it personally.
I am etiolated without every single instance, Aaron.
There I go. Talk to the flowers, Daniel.
It’s as nothing when you think of China.
I’ve no plans to change my posture on you.
I need to be sure when they end my nightmares are true,
that the devil in white down the road really lives for hate.
We have found a way to log them; anima quaesitor.
All roads bleed to Rome, mate.
– Daniel Roy Connelly