From the age that I first started walking and talking, I always knew my dad as a poet, painter and writer. And an alcoholic. Well, they do tend to go hand in hand, don’t they?
In 2009 my dad decided he’d had enough of this life and so took himself off to the local train station, waited for the fast one to come flying along the tracks, and let it take him into whatever comes after we leave this existence.
*By the way, it’s taken me a long time to feel even moderately comfortable talking (or writing) about that particular period in mine and my sisters’ lives. Which is why I won’t have written about it before, and almost certainly never will again.
‘You stink of me!’ you exclaimed
As I slid up your sweat soaked torso
Kiss your mouth
‘You taste of me!’
Underneath me your whole body shaking
You couldn’t speak
The flesh of your inner thighs
Involuntarily and uncontrollably vibrating
You couldn’t even light a cigarette
And then we sank to the bottom
In a whiskey bottle
On somebody’s desk
Destroyed by friendly fire.
Frank was never happier, nor was he ever more sad,
Than when he was sat alone in his flat with a book on his lap, or a pen in his hand.
Happy because he didn’t have to please anyone,
Sad because he had no one to please.
No one was good enough for Frank,
Nor was Frank good enough for anyone.
Women liked Frank,
They always had.
Frank never could understand this, but wasn’t one to question such things.
Frank was repulsed by women who thought themselves too beautiful,
The ones who couldn’t walk past a mirror without stopping.
He hid from them.
He hated how they thought they were better than others,
How they thought they had more rights.
‘Why does she think she has more of a right to disturb me than her?’
He would ask himself, bitterly. Continue reading