HAVE YOU GOT A LIGHT?
I was seven on the day, my uncle asked me to play.
He asked if I’d like to have a toy fight.
The dirty old bastard, he stole my light.
Be a good boy and you’ll go to heaven.
What did I know, I was only seven.
I asked him to stop it. I felt strange.
He reached into his pocket and threw me some change.
“Everyone does it. It’s always been done, but all the same you mustn’t tell anyone.”
I don’t remember the details of what went on that night,
But many years on I can see it was then I began losing my light.
It happened for more years than I care to admit.
For my part in all this, I will always feel shit.
For years I would ask him, “Are you sure this is right?”
“Of course it is,” he’d say. He didn’t care about my light.
One summer’s day, messing in the park
I was with a mate, you know, just having a lark.
“Does your uncle wank you off?” I said.
“No, that’s queer!” He moved away. I felt myself going red.
“Does yours?” he asked, straining to hear.
I gave him a dead leg, “fuck off,” I laughed! “I’m no queer.”
Come six o’clock we’re both tired and rotten,
I’ still wonder if that conversation is forgotten.
And yet my uncle still persisted with his claim.
“Come on,” he’d say. “It’s harmless fun. Let’s have another game.”
I WAS DYING. WHY COULDN’T YOU SEE?
I was full of nervous twitches, YOU SHOULD HAVE RESCUED ME!
I wonder if he knew that it would affect me to this day.
Or did he even care? As long as he could play.
It’s totally destroyed my life, that’s why this poem I will not sign.
Life is frightening enough when your sanity’s on the line.
I sometimes feel I’m loosing it, I’m loosing control.
There’s blackness in my heart, in my mind and in my soul.
I’ve been in touch with therapists looking for a light,
But do you know what? Some of them are full of shite!
Because, you see, they are not funded to help a little lad of thirty-two,
So they give you a few numbers, tell you not to give up hope, but there’s nothing they can do.
I tried hypnotherapy, meditation too.
To find my light, there’s nothing I wouldn’t do.
Then there’s religion, I try with all that I am to believe in God and heaven,
But that’s not easy, not for me, Not since I was seven.
Should I have written this poem?
Please don’t judge me wrong or right.
But the little lad who is with me always thought it might help to find his light.