Richard II

Wednesday is about books and reading - and writing. Sometimes I share some new writing. Today "Richard II", a second set of (new) poems from the potential new book project I'm working on.

A couple of weeks ago, and you might remember, or maybe this is new to you, I shared a few “Richard” poems. The idea of The Richard Poems started last year when I did an Honours class at the University, where we analysed poetry, but also wrote and shared our own. People in the class were horrified by the character of ‘Richard’ but they also asked for more. So I started writing more. And I also found I’d already written some, even if he wasn’t named, he was there…he was in the poems. And in some cases, I felt him in there deeply. He had always been there. But I’ve continued writing new ones, more overtly Richard poems.

But I realise, as I carry on with this, that I’m going to have to go around and apologise to all the Richards I know. (I actually know some pretty great Richards). Well, okay, maybe I don’t need to apologise to all the Richards. There’s one I technically wouldn’t want to apologise to…

Richard

Anyway, since they’re piling up, I thought I’d share a second set of The Richard Poems. Happy for your feedback once again. And happy also to just be sharing them, so don’t feel you have to say a thing…

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Richard Plays Layla

He could play the riff from Layla.
Not bad, but that was all – acoustic
guitar. And he played it small,

no searing slide of course. He’d loop
the riff a dozen times then smirk.
And rest. Strange feeling of completion.

I tried to join in on a set of bongos.
It’s the closest we ever got. Some
actual connection — away from

the madness. We were 13 years old
and was just us against the rest;
in a world of our own.

---

SummerSlam, 1988

We met early in ’88, so by the time SummerSlam rolled around
we were mates; I stayed at his — and we stayed up late — waiting
for the fights to start and for his parents to go to bed.

It was all about tag-team matches back then, so we loved seeing
The British Bulldogs against The Fabulous Rougeaus — even if
it ended in a draw, even if it was a bit of a bore. The Powers

of Pain defeated the Bolsheviks, which was more of what we wanted,
after short matches from Rick Rude and Bad News Brown. I loved Rick Rude,
and he loved Bad News Brown — we both loved The Ultimate Warrior, and

enjoyed seeing him destroy The Honky Tonk Man in 30 seconds.
Neither of us cared that much for Dino Bravo nor Don ‘The Rock’ Muraco —
so that was a chance to creep to the kitchen, to sneak some snacks.

Then back into our sleeping bags, and the volume on the TV had to
stay low. So, we kept our laughter and talking as quiet as possible.
Demolition defeated The Hart Foundation, Jake Roberts beat Hercules,

and The Big Boss Man obviously wasted Koko B. Ware. We didn’t care
for those matches so much – though we both loved Jake The Snake.
And then it was The Mega Powers against The Mega Bucks.

Which meant Hulk Hogan and The Macho Man against Andre The Giant and
Ted DiBiase. Of course the good guys won. And we took it back to school,
declaring ourselves The Mega Powers in all the tag-team matches

during lunchtimes. And that’s what we were. For a year. Or so. And then
there was a school assembly banning wrestling in the playground.
And it would be many years before we’d have our own wrestling-type storyline,

the Mega Powers colliding. Friends no more. A huge story would play out
across the next decade, with me on the ropes most often. Both of us jostling
for position. Eventually, a submission. But it all started with SummerSlam, 1988.

---

Shampoo in the Computer

There was a disc in the box of computer games
that wasn’t labelled. And one day I put it in the drive
to see what was on there. And this weird whirring
started-up. Richard called out to his mum, “Simon’s put
the shampoo disc in  the computer!” And she said
we’d have to pay for it. So I was on the phone to my dad,
he could bring our Commodore64 up the road
for the sleepover. And  just like that, Richard was happy.
He said, “she’ll never actually make us pay for it –

they’ll get the computer fixed, and meanwhile we’ll use yours”.
As far as he was concerned it was all over. Sorted. But
one problem remained. I couldn’t understand why the
shampoo disc was in with the others. Richard explained
that it had got mixed up on a trip, in with the toiletries.
But that didn’t justify why it wasn’t simply thrown away.
Then he said they kept it — as a lesson. Their own game
of Russian Roulette. It was always a matter of time.

Every single time. And I thought, often, about how
even a tiny dose of chaos, measured out like
a handful of shampoo, was still
chaos, was still madness.
“That”, Richard said, “is what’s funny about it.
It’s a game brother.
It’s all a game”.

---

Passage / Time

he lived in a house in the country
all alone. Four bedrooms, and one
was just for the rubbish, said it
didn’t smell so bad when you
closed the door. Never had any visitors
(see above).

Reckoned he spent whole nights with
the stereo on, out on the porch with a
drink in hand. Said it felt good just to
scream. No one could hear him out there.

That’s when I knew he was ‘gone’ - the
friend I’d had. Past tense. Things were
now very tense — whenever he passed. I
wanted him gone, though not like that.
It was so clear that he was drowning…
(sea above).

---

Walk of Life

It’s the worst song by Dire Straits
and maybe the worst song….ever?
At the concert, in 1991, at the height
or our Knopfler fandom, my mate said
if they played Walk of Life he was off.
Second song of the night, that jarring,
infernal, obnoxious synth line kicks in —
and he’s gone! My mate ditches me,
leaves me lost and alone in the crowd.

Two songs later, he taps me
on the shoulder, full commitment
to the bit. Says, “So, how was it? As bad
as we’ve always said?”
I asked him where he went. He just
laughed and said, “I took a walk…”

---

Petty

We were driving from Wellington to Hawke’s
Bay, and just out on the motorway where
you can see the start of Tawa in a blur, he
mentioned so casually, “That’s where we
went for family counselling — when I was
about five”. No one said anything, the car
driving in silence. So, he added, “All I
remember is this woman opening the door
and saying ‘but why do you hate your
brother’ — how’s that?” This time, mild
laughter, a bit awkward, we brushed over
it by turning up the Tom Petty. When we
arrived he hit the piss straight away, and
the first person that got in his way, just
shortly after.

---

Three Little Birds

We were playing tag — and when he
was ‘it’ he ran away from us. He kept

making these piles of stones — we played
on the climing frame, until, finally bored,

we went over to see what he’d been doing.
He’d spelled out, in these giant stone piles,

the words “You’re Next!” And he’d arranged
three dead birds — and while reading and

taking it all in, he swooped down from a
tree to tag all three of us. Then laughed,

said, “don’t worry about a thing”. This
was the exact start of the worrying…

---

Gallimaufry

I still don’t know exactly
when he turned, I get the feeling it was
slow-burn, happening all the time. But three
years in the boys-only school certainly
didn’t help him. Or helped him to turn,

if you want to look at it that way.
But why appreciate that view? What
bothered me most was the easy way
he could win a room, take them over, make
you seem like the crazy one. Turn the

gaslighting down and the
heat up high. Bray loudly into the night.
That smirk was one for the pantomime
stage. The unsettled rage that cooked
so slowly inside him.

---

TwentyOne

For my 21^st birthday, he bought me a set of clippers.
It came with the slight threat: We’re going to
shave your head! I had a ponytail, which is

its own crime these days, and the plan was
first one under the table received
a complimentary haircut. But we all kept drinking,

which was the only flaw in the plan. (We were better
at drinking, than planning). So, late in the afternoon
that very next day, which felt like the same day

only stretched out across a week, Richard grabbed
the clippers and stood shaving at his own hair. 
He laughed as bits fell into the pint he was still drinking,

while looking like one of the reluctant Privates from
Full Metal Jacket. I outdrank them all that next day too,
returned to Wellington with my hair tickling my neck

under my shirt. And then, sometime not so long after,
in a bar one night, in front of a crowd, I took a knife
and cut my ponytail and scattered it like tiny trophies

all through the room. The owners looked disgusted.
But Richard slapped me hard on the back.
“Well done, mate”, he said, with a hard draw on his cig.

The next day my flatmate finished the job, shaved
the rest of my head. And I bought my first beanie,
but there are some things you can’t cover up completely.

---

Cunt Hunt

Remember “Cunt Hunt”, he said.
And he said it like it was a kick-ass
Beastie Boys song or a Tarantino flick,
or some must-see TV show from
back in the weekly episodic daze…

but I did remember it.
Remembered it – sadly –
so well.

We were having a party.
Some guy’s birthday.
And I’d made all these mixtapes of 80s bangers…

There was beer on the floor and
heads were being held high and it was all on.

There was just one problem – well,
there was, of course, plenty more.
But one dude was sure there was
only (ever) one issue.

This was the worst sausage-fest of all time.

So to remedy it, or to at least draw
the most attention to the predicament,
he started a low, slow chant.

“Cunt hunt. Cunt Hunt. CUNT HUNT!”
And from a lone voice to a hideous drunk choir.

“Cunt hunt. Cunt Hunt. CUNT HUNT!”
Someone skulled a pint of vodka and fell on the floor.

“Cunt hunt. Cunt Hunt. CUNT HUNT!”
Someone pissed his pants – proudly – in front of everyone.

“Cunt hunt. Cunt Hunt. CUNT HUNT!”
A bottle through the window. Just: because.

“Cunt hunt. Cunt Hunt. CUNT HUNT!”
Bruce Springsteen’s Born In The USA cranking in the background…

“Cunt hunt. Cunt Hunt. CUNT HUNT!”
(And you were the only one thinking that song had been misappropriated before…)

“Cunt hunt. Cunt Hunt. CUNT HUNT!”
Then, like a wolf howling at the top of the pack he broke up the chant

(“Cunt hunt. Cunt Hunt. CUNT HUNT!”)

To shout: “Some fucking bitches
better show up soon, fucking anything,
any fucking cunt will do, some horrible
cunt, just any cunt – I really don’t care…”

They were braying beneath him,
holding him aloft. This is how bad
goes to worse. This is the fucking pits.

This was the house where you lived…

But just as he’d finished
shouting his demands and
the chorus gave it one final sing-song burst:

“Cunt hunt. Cunt Hunt. CUNT HUNT!”

his girlfriend walked in. And
wrinkled her nose. Screwed up
her face, whilst turning the other cheek.

The wolf…suddenly sheepish.
“They’re a bad influence honey….”,
he said with a smirk. She nestled in
under his arm – and it seemed both

got their wish.
The hunt was over.         
They’d each found
what they were looking for.

---

Father. Son. And The Holy Roast

My son is now the age I was
when I met Richard. I think about that
now and then — the way he and his
friends all act. It really is so different.

But also not that different when
we really are so useless then, not
little kids at all but still so much
growing up to do. And mentally,

and spiritually it lags behind what
happens physically. I think about this
quite a lot and wonder if Richard had
a son and how he’d work as a dad.

A lot less weird than his own, but
maybe no more present. Times are
weird to contemplate, and all those
mistakes, and all you forever resent.

---

Ricky

He never let anyone call him that.
He wasn’t Rich, or Dick, or Rick, or Dicky.

He was Richard through and through —
until one night, a woman called him

Ricky. Then he said it wasn’t so bad.
He treated her very badly. I so wish

she’d just called him Richard.

---

Clang

I never saw evidence of his soul. I never heard
anything resembling soulfulness coming from him.
He would visit my mother in the shop where she worked,
later he’d tell others he fantasised over running away
with her; she’d like his muscles. And they’d fix my
father from any interference.

He choked my best friend, dunking him repeatedly in
Cuba Mall’s fountain. He talked all the time about who
he could have, and when he would not bother, boasted
about the time a girl from school who had just thrown up
on New Year’s Eve, tried to kiss him - but he just pushed
her head down. She could kiss the cock instead eh.

There was the time he stole money from the place where
he worked, and all of those drinks he gave himself from
behind the bar. He was bulletproof even without a vest.
The soul is our strength, through its very vulnerability.
He had no vulnerability — he was bulletproof, psychologically
bereft; spiritually bankrupt — writing emotional blank checks…

By the end there was nothing left, he was bulletproof. Or
so he would say. But his words held no truth.
His words were water through the fingers — his grasp
forever slipping. The sadness profound. The madness
forever terrifying. And his soul never present, never even
traceable…never to be found.

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WOLF CREEK

I heard you moved
somewhere near Perth.
They made a documentary…

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