“D’you think it’s fine for me to have a look
inside the tombs and see what’s there? The dark
and void-like space becomes an addict’s hook
to someone curious like me.” The stark
response from Pat is that I can
but when I speak to think before I start.
But interrupting me, a builder stands
inside his tomb and orders me to “Go
back to where you came from.” He understands
Nothing. In best South London I explode
“No you fuck off, you wanker.” Not the calm
I would have liked, I started down the road
of self defence, and wishing on him harm.
“So where you from? I bet your relatives
aren’t English.” What is this? I’m often charmed
by people thinking they can friend me with
some nationalistic shit, but this is not
what I’d expect, as if I’m somehow his.
We’re interrupted by another lot
of “Tell you what – the Polish plumbers took
away my work, those bastards broke me, stopped
me earning.” This second guy has looked,
his burning hair and melting flesh that slides
across his neck, his body slowly cooks,
pipes up: “I met you once before I died.
I put a water valve in by mistake.
It should have been a gas valve.” Then he cried.
“That installation blew. I’ll always hate
myself for that. I took out half a flat
and half a family because of late
the night before I’d got quite pissed and sat
up chatting up this chick. I did the job
hungover tired and feeling flat
and died in the explosion when the hob
ignited. DId the girl survive? I hope
the daughter didn’t die.” A life well robbed
became a little worse, when how I groped
for words convinced him that the worst he’d feared
was true, inferring words I never spoke.
Affecting those his story was, my tears
ran though I never knew him or the girl
before the broken moment he appeared.
“Ahem.” The first guy desperately unfurls
his England flag and wipes the shit away.
“So did we win that vote?” he sweeps and twirls
the flag despondently, his face is grey.
“You mean the referendum? Yes and No.
We’re out of Europe, yes, but that’s to say
the country’s now in free-fall. You don’t know
the racist stuff that’s happened since that vote.”
“But what about the immigration though?”
“I’m not a racist though.” He adds. I note
his body language changing – subtle shifts,
defensiveness and shades of winner’s gloat.
“So come on mate. Well, why do you resist
the immigration thing?” My body tense
like I’m the one who’s dead, my feelings drift.
“The numbers coming over are immense.”
I know they’re not, but tension in my throat
has cut me off “…it doesn’t make no sense:
We’re full. The housing shortage form the scrotes
who come here, don’t pay tax, so NHS
is fucked by all the refugees in boats…”
There’s tightening in my struggle to express
my feeling that he’s wrong. He is in Hell.
But where to start? The way that you address
that argument, and making it go well
that immigrants are not the ones that kill
the NHS or housing stock that fell
to ruin years before an overspill
of people smaller than a town from here
is not the problem, unconvinced him still,
that all of life i valued and held dear
sounds hollow if you think that someone’s thick
and treat them with contempt and silent sneers.
While valuing the Other isn’t quick
but takes a special place inside your walls
when other countrymen won’t let it stick
the argument continually stalls
when seeing “Them” as “Other” is the fault.
I kicked the fucker right between the balls.
Well what was I supposed to do? I thought
a lot, but this frustration takes me out
and all those clever words are being fought.
I realised there isn’t any doubt,
the chances are he’d do the same to me
without a second thought and twice the clout.
I felt no better for it but believed
I had no other choice available.
I checked there’s nothing else to be retrieved.
He muttered something else contemptible
about his Postal Vote he couldn’t change.
I found that part most risible of all.
Rejoining Patrick, thoughts and words ingrained
in my expression, asking me my thoughts
I laid out my conflicted mind, explained
my obviously being out of sorts.
“Remember this dilemma that you faced
and all the things you feel this story taught.”
The smell had drawn us to another place.
Social tagging: dante > inferno > poetry > referendum
