Richard

Wednesday is about books and reading - and writing. Sometimes I share some new writing. Today "Richard", a new project I'm working on...

“Richard” is the name of a new folder on my desktop. It is the start of a poetry sequence. In a perfect world it might be an old-fashioned poetry chapbook. Optimistically, it is the start of a sequence that will be part of a new book/folio of poems. One or two of these are very old poems - you maybe have seen them before. But many of them are new, brand new, written in a burst in the last week or two. The start of something that has been lingering in my mind for a long time. I’d love to know if you think I’m on any sort of (right?) track. Or otherwise…

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Sacrifice

We listened to The Very Best of Elton John
on the road from Napier through Wairoa -
it was good, some decent songs, but it
wasn’t our choice at all. Richard’s dad said
that Pink Floyd was “cold sweat music”.

I remember laughing at that description,
and only seeing it as a positive way to think
about the band. But Richard warned me
not to laugh. And announced far too loudly
‘I’m Still Standing’ was his favourite song.

Whenever I hear it now, I wonder if he is.
And I guess, I have to wonder about how many
not standing now might be because of something
he did. You can’t blame a father for not letting
his son listen to Pink Floyd. And that’s a shame.

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Listening To Elvis

I used to drive over from my place to his.
And we’d sit in his room – there wasn’t
anything on the walls – and we’d listen
to Pink Floyd or Bowie. Sometimes, we

might play Dire Straits. But those were
the options. So, I remember one time
it was particularly memorable to
be listening to Fleetwood Mac.

We’d sit in silence and listen through to
albums – but at my house it was different;
very much hanging with the whole family.
He was out of his shell, concocting stories

and so committed to living this lie. When I
asked him, one time, what the difference was.
He said, “I never feel like I want to murder
your parents”. Then suggested we listen to Elvis.

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Filtering

Richard’s dad said to Richard’s mum that he would like
to see their son. So, Richard’s mum called up the stairs
to let us know that was the plan. This was the way

the communications flowed in this house; always uphill.
Richard told me he had to go and see his dad out back
in the garden, by the pool. When I wondered why,

he scowled and told me this was their bonding moment.
His dad loved that pool, and it was always wise for Richard
to play along. Richard’s inner demons were only let out

when his parents were not around. So it was all about
how clear and blue and beautiful the pool looked. And
Richard’s dad was beaming. He never asked his son about

the fights at school, nor the things that happened in the
neighbourhood. None of that mattered if the pool was
blue and clear and sitting in perfect place under the

clear blue sky as well. For all that Richard’s dad could see
was good. And Richard’s mum would hold off any bad news
at the kink in the stairwell by the laundry chute.

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one new year’s eve

a mate of mine – not a mate anymore
used to carry with him a card;
picture of a monkey swinging from a tree…
well, chimpanzee, but we all call them
monkeys when we’re telling the stories…

he’d laugh when we’d ask why he carried that card.
told us we’d never know when it might come in handy.
we all went along with it – “he’s mad”, we’d say, laughing –
little did we know.                                      and then we knew…
and we didn’t want to.

one new year’s eve you were walking along with him,
the pubs all boring, the queues all long or else
the bar was dead, nothing in-between…
then he tapped a guy on the shoulder, as you
waited in one queue.

(‘uh-oh’, you thought, but still hoped for the best).
next thing: ‘and what did you say, cunt?’ said
your friend, your pal, the meathead… ‘you getting
smart cunt, you getting smart cunt, you getting smart, eh?’,
he said to a person whose lip was buttoned, who didn’t

say a thing and possibly, in that moment couldn’t
for the fear enveloping him.                     next thing: bang!
a big smack behind his ear. dull thud, as he hit the concrete
– a horrible sound. and your mate laughing, for no
apparent reason. the madness enveloping him, alive

with the glow of too many beers.           and then the bouncer
grabbing him, they wrestled for not too long.
“back pocket, mate”, your friend had said, lost deep inside
his own movie and long ago. he signalled to his wallet, the
bouncer opened it with a shrug.

“well, you’ll want some i.d”
your mate said, elated.
handing him the card
with the monkey on it
from the weetbix packet

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Girls and Boys at The Havelock North Public Swimming Pools

We were 16 and the girls were 14
and they hung around us for a summer
and we liked to think that we were
obviously cool, and the girls were
part of our gang – which proved it.

But when they moved on, and we
didn’t, the realisation was we’d been
used like a set of training wheels.
And fair enough. This is not a late
in life realisation.

I remember thinking it at the time.
They were far too cool for us, despite
being young. We were never cool.
They made us feel or seem fleetingly
cool. Then they took that away.

It wasn’t even like a band-aid rip.
It just happened. We barely noticed.
They moved on. We stayed the same.
We didn’t have extra confidence
as a result. We didn’t have anything.

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The Wall

I tried playing The Wall by Pink Floyd. But I’m not actually able to. Not any longer. You see, my copy is forever trapped inside a red Sony Walkman. It hangs forever on a fabric belt inside the proud loops of some stonewash jeans. There with unlaced basketball boots beneath it, peddling along the streets of Havelock North in the early 1990s. A flat-deck truck drives by and the farmhands hanging from the back of it yell “homo” at whoever might be noticing, then high-five themselves with huge laughs as quarter-acre paradises blur into the background.

The concrete sameness of the Hawke’s Bay bourgeois had its soundtrack then, and is holding onto it still. The local government practically issued copies of the album on long-play cassette alongside canvas army-surplus school bags and a black marker to scrawl the name and attempt to draw in some version of the bricks. 

The town’s aura of being so-pleased-with-itself was like a fawning, golden hue. As if the people that bought cheap housing on the promise of it one day prospering were the same people that had the luck to plant the grapes in the perfect conditions and wait. And wait. And wait.

I tried to listen to it all again, but it brings back the memories of the madman that co-opted my teenage soul. I gave him the best years of friendship but only realised he was a vacant lunatic when it was far too late. That in itself feels like the background notes for a Roger Waters lyric. So ironies roll deep in those undulating hills, the loops of tape still circling themselves on the golden crown of that lush green paradise.

My red Sony Walkman was a gift to myself with the pocket money I saved for a year, excited about the first overseas trip. To Sydney, where I dreamed of stonewash jeans and basketball boots. I’d heard Roger Waters’ song Radio Waves, but not yet the album it rode in on. I knew Pink Floyd, but not much. I loved music. And my idea of the first tapes I wanted to play on the Walkman included Whitney Houston and Cyndi Lauper, Prince and U2, Midnight Oil and Madonna. But in the end, it was Def Leppard and INXS, Talking Heads and Rick Astley. I thought I was never gonna give that up…

A year or so later, it was almost entirely about Pink Floyd. And I was fired up to hear The Wall in its entirety. Because I loved Another Brick In The Wall Part II and Comfortably Numb and Run Like Hell and Mother and one or two others. And it was time to hear them all.

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Bad Gateway Drugs

we didn’t have the internet to rot our minds,
we had to do it ourselves – it took a lot longer
because no one was watching.

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Another Hole

Richard had said that his grandmother was dead.
That was how he got out of work after only one week.
It had been a long week, for sure. Starting at 7am, and
not finishing until 6. In the shop, sole charge, selling
snacks to people on their way in or out from the
station.

He had taken the job because he needed to contribute,
rent and other expenses. He’d been freeloading for weeks,
and you had demanded he find a way to actually pay.
But five days in a row: Punch a clock. That didn’t work for
Richard. Not when there were people to punch, and bottles
to smash – and huge highs to reach from both.

He made the call, on the final day of that week. Explaining
the “death” and how he’d have to travel “down south”.
Off the phone, and a sickening grin. The plan was fool proof,
and he had nailed it. “He said he was really sorry to hear that
and all the best Richard”. And you pointed out that none
of it was real. The kind words were tricked out of the boss.

Richard repeated it louder, block caps: “HE SAID HE WAS
REALLY SORRY TO HEAR. AND ALL THE BEST
RICHARD”. It was frightening to see another world opening.
The one where Richard thought he could live. And then with
his first and final pay he bought a big bottle to celebrate. And
knocked another hole in your wall.

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Plastering The Cracks

The stereo was playing
“Why Can’t We Be Friends”
the day I told my best friend
of over a decade that he had
to get the fuck out of my house and
my face – in either order – and that
we were done.

And that’s neither poetic device nor
poetic justice – it’s just the facts.
You remember what song was on
 when you’re telling someone you’ve
known that long to please-and-thankyou
get out of your life.
He stood in anger, said he should
knock me the fuck out. I told him
to go for it. Or, you know, even better,
just go. He held a fist to my
face and everything was shaking.

The punch meant for me was delivered
to the wall. It was just standing there.
Right place, wrong time. It took
quite a while to plaster over the cracks.

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The Start Of The Worst Summer You Ever Had

Richard liked to say that he was the only one with a real drinking problem: Two hands and only one mouth! His was an incredible thirst, an insatiable drive and you could never imagine yourself ever being able to compete, let alone wanting to. In fact, you could nearly die just trying.

It soon became very trying indeed.

One day, a five-litre bottle of whiskey was sat there on the doorstep, apparently a prize from a raffle – but there was always a little story and there was hardly ever much actual proof. Apparently the golfclub were good cunts eh, for making sure on that promise…

And you were lucky too, because this was basically his contribution to the rent, even if you’d have preferred some actual money. But money would have been actual proof. Whiskey was a better wee story.

Also, don’t hold out on that rent-contribution once received eh. Be a bit rude not to open it for a little tipple, wouldn’t it? Well, you’ll never know because this was suggested as he was opening it.

Soon, anyone that entered the room was commanded to take a shot.

You went to the movies – to see whatever was on. Just to not be there. You got back as late as you could, had plenty of things on your mind besides all this mess, so you went for a walk around the block before turning up back home to that flat.

And there he was, holding court. In his rugby shorts. His elbow propped up on a makeshift bar. Showing people how he could bend it both ways, laughing at his own jokes as big bellows of smoke circled up as if to put a thought bubble around the cliché of it all. Not that much thinking was going on.

And the downstairs neighbour didn’t have any interest in being there but made the mistake of living directly underneath all this noise, and the bigger mistake of checking to see what the noise all was anyway.

So he was called up and just as soon as he made it across the threshold, he wished that he hadn’t. He turned down the first offer of a shot and was immediately called a faggot. And yeah, that could be shrugged off but then another taunt, and more questioning on both his lack of desire to drink and his sexuality. Next thing he was slugged in the side of the head. No reason. Well, there was always a wee reason. There just wasn’t ever much actual truth.

“Smart cunt, looking down on us for having a good time”.

You then had to drag the slim weight of him, by the feet, to the door, then lift him up and carry him downstairs apologising profusely to the gathered housemates below. They were screaming at you because they needed to know what was wrong with you all. And you could have been given all the time in the world and you’d never be able to answer that one.

The police would be getting a call, they said. Fair. And the landlord too. And you’d be hearing from him again, the last time he called it was about four in the afternoon and it woke you up so that didn’t impress him so much.

Back upstairs, the weight of a cold new world was on your shoulders and the whiskey bottle was on its ear. A slug to the side of its head had toppled it too. And there was no reason for that either.

He was dancing to the Curtis Mayfield you’d put on the stereo.

“You always know the tunes to chill me right out” he said, big puff of smoke up into the air and that soulless grin that said nothing yet somehow spoke in volumes.

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Bloodsports

I can still remember everything about the time I first saw the movie Bloodsport. It was at a 13th birthday party for my really good mate. There was a bunch of us, we went to the arcade and played the wrestling game, we went ten-pin bowling after, then back to the orchard to throw rotten fruit at each other, ripping down the aisles of trees on quad bikes as rival gangs. When it got cold, we were forced inside but there were a few breakaways to the trampoline while we waited for the computer games to load. And then after the cake, and the big bottles of coke, we lined up the videotapes to watch.

It was Bloodsport that was the highlight. But also, Hellraiser. To get to them we had to first watch the Teenage Vampire movie, which was pretty cool too. There were tired eyes and some of the soldiers dropped pretty quickly, even though there was still a huge bag of Burger Rings, and we had one whole room in that big farmhouse to ourselves. Sleeping bags everywhere. The next morning, I woke early – I had never felt so tired – but I did it because I had to get the jump: wanted to watch Bloodsport again, or at least as much as I could before getting picked up. I was the only one up to begin with, but the friends started joining in as the action was building. We were cheering by midway, and when the bone in the leg snaps, we all winced. The Karate Kid was just Play-Doh, this was a monument, tall building, a work of art.

I’d missed my father’s 40th birthday to attend this 13th. It made more sense to me, then and now. And Bloodsport still fills me with a visceral thrill I could never be capable of acting on, have never felt I need to justify nor compartmentalise – it’s just simply one of the greatest films I know. But there’s a sadness that lingers when thinking about it also. Some of the friends you have and just fall out of touch with. Where do they go? Why does it happen? So you hold onto the memory of their 13th birthday, like a film you keep renting, and pay all the overdues.

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Be A Good Cunt At The BBQ Eh

Make sure you’re a good cunt for the BBQ, alright?
It’s the number one thing in life. You need to
put on enough of a show so they know you’re okay.
You talk about the weather, the rugby, the greatest hits
of Coldplay and U2. These are things lots of people
know about, many people are passionate about
these things. You make sure not to stray too far
from those lines. None of that jazz talk – unless it’s
middle of the road and the conversation is specifically
about background music.  None of that stuff about
poetry and prose-poems, you want crime novels,
or preferably podcasts. Sometimes now you can piggy-back
from a good podcast-chat into what’s in your Netflix queue.

Sometimes the titles are identical now – they used to make
TV shows about books, and podcasts too. Now they make
podcasts about the TV shows, or the TV shows are even
made after the podcast.  Anyway, all of this is good BBQ chat.
Along with prices. Prices of houses. Prices of meat. Groceries
in general. And sometimes it’s good to talk about kids
in school. You can marvel about the way they learn now,
and how it’s different to how you ever did it – you can
make a joke or two about being an absentee parent and
letting your kid have too much screen-time, because,
chances are, your kid will not be there in that same spot
as you; will in fact be on a screen somewhere near
or near enough eh…

Have a drink in your hand and a smile on speed-dial, have
the heart to ask about anyone else but don’t get too caught up
in anything much. Leave plenty of room and time and space
for waving and smiling. Big grins are good. They’re good
as gold mate. They’re your actual friend in this situation.
A genuine mate. Be a good cunt at the BBQ, eh.
Don’t be an actual cunt. Don’t be a dick.

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The Last Time I Saw Richard

No Joni Mitchell song, if it had been playing he would
have turned it off; said ‘what’s that faggot shit?’ or just
put on some Guns n Roses.

He wasn’t even meant to be there – it was my birthday
and I hadn’t invited him. A well-meaning mutual friend
wanted everything to be okay for all of us.

But that wasn’t going to ever be the case again

ended with Richard holding me against the wall.
He hit me twice, and I took those hits, refusing

to get involved any further. I told him to hit me -
and he did. As if it could ever prove anything, for
either of us. He ran from the room. Tears of rage,

and for a split second, I felt sorry for him. Then my
face really started to hurt. I found my Joni Mitchell
record, put it on – and we tried to continue

a party. I’ve always liked in-jokes where
I’m the only one that gets it. It wasn’t worth
taking the hits of course. But a hell of a punchline.

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