Wednesday, 5 August 2015

Dead Cool OR Funeral Rites for Macho Man


Overheard on a bus:

TEENAGER 1: It’s all very well for people to say don’t carry a gun, but what do they know, yeah? It’s dead cool, right? You have to protect yourself, yeah? F++k the do-gooders. What kind of world do they think we live in? You gotta get real, yeah?

TEENAGER 2: What if someone gets hurt, killed even?

TEENAGER 1: So it ain’t gonna be me, right?

TEENAGER 2: I dunno…

TEENAGER 1: (Rising to leave as bus stops) You don’t know nothing then.

An elderly later sitting next to me shook her head. ‘He’s right about one thing. What do we know about the world they live in? And whose fault is that, I wonder?

I said nothing. What could I say?

This poem is a villanelle.

DEAD COOL or FUNERAL RITES FOR MACHO MAN

Finally, managed to get me a gun
and spreading the word,
didn’t ask who’ll carry my coffin

Shouting at just about everyone,
but no one ever heard;
finally, managed to get me a gun,

Needed to prove I was someone,
get me some street cred;
didn’t ask who’ll carry my coffin

At first, life was a buzz, good fun,
but all that disappeared;
finally, managed to get me a gun,

A gangster vid game let me down,
couldn’t show I was scared,
didn’t ask who’ll carry my coffin

Macho mates wept to see my crown
dripping with blood;
finally, managed to get me a gun,
didn’t ask who’ll carry my coffin


Copyright R. N. Taber 2010; 2015

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