Stunted State Turf **(contains strong language)**
Dad was a racist cunt.
Not
that I minded the leather-faced bugger,
‘cept when the bigotry became a bludgeon.
From
a different age; his outrage at being thrust
into the midst of multicultural mélange
was audible two doors down.
Dad was a racist cunt.
but
he frowned on the National Front. “Neo-Nasties”,
“Hitler-Spawn” – we fought like buggery till dawn,
till
drawn and shit-knackered, shattered – and we still
can’t squeeze out the despicable spectre.
No,
Dad was for Red Constitution. Working-Man’s-Rights
kind (Brit Whites, mind); Trad Labour scrimp-n’-saver.
Toffs
as bad as the fookin’ Blacks and Pakis. Got yer back,
mate, if you save me a place n’ a pint n’ not a damn
word ’bout Third-World affairs.
Dad, the racist cunt, swims in my ink;
writing,
I hear the Professor’s mantra – Show, don’t tell – soft,
steady, in the ears of this arid mind, wooing monsoon.
Dad
thought he’d taught his son nowt about the merits of
bigotry; resting in rotting plywood a few feet beneath
stunted State turf, he’d shown him The World.
























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