Life and War with Mikey Fatboy Delgado
Wednesday, December 02, 2015
 
Queen and Country / Letter



On Laughing Mushrooms we were,
all of us, except for 
London Mikey the black boy,
and the lieutenant,
a posh cunt
on anti-depressants.

And patrolling out there
on the same street where
the guy who got killed two days before
was in his house, in his coffin,
on the front room table,
and in the middle of his forehead
a tiny tiny blue bruise...
and I’m telling you now,
you wouldn’t know he was dead,
you’d think the box was his bed
not that he’d gone down dead into the gutter
where twisted like that
he looked like he’d just got tired
of throwing stones
and had dropped down and curled up
and gone off to sleep,
not that one of us had shot the rubber bullet
straight at his Irish head
instead of into the ground in front of his feet.

And two days later down his street
the acid started to bubble through
as strong as ten bears
just as it all went twisted
like that bit where
at the end of Bonnie and Clyde
those birds get spooked
and all you can hear is flapping wings
and birds getting the fuck out of those trees
and they look at each other, Warren Beatty
and that blonde piece,
and you can see them thinking what the fuck is this?
this is fucking it…


 and I don’t know what did it to us that day,
perhaps a car backfired, or some cunt pulled a stunt
with a firework, but we hit the floor man
and shot up the fucking street with live fire,
right, left, and fucking centre.
And Dave from Swansea,
a big fat Swansea Jack bastard
was screaming bandits! bandits! bandits!
and everyone else screaming screaming screaming
about the fucking Pope and Irish cunts.
And where one minute that poor fucker was laid out
ready for the cemetery
in his Sunday best
looking like he’d had enough politics for one day
and had slipped into his box for a little sleep,
the next minute the lieutenant’s screaming
hold your fire! hold your fucking fire!
screaming and bawling like a big fucking girl
whose dickhead boyfriend is being fucked-up
in the car park of a pub for being a twat;

and every window on the front of that guy’s house
is shot to fuck, with us sticking our heads through there
from outer space,
like space cadets,
peering like vegetables
at the matchwood of the mashed up coffin
and the body with eleven rounds in it
tipped onto the floor,
ripped to big pieces,
covered in glass and a fucked up flag.

And we stared and stared at the squiggly wallpaper
cascading down the wall
like a waterfall,
and what we could see of the carpet pattern
was squirming
like a pit of snakes,
and you wouldn’t believe the colours , as vivid
as the lieutenant’s face, melting
like cartoon stuff…..and the silence man,
the absolute
fucking
silence.

     And then transport came
     and got us out of there
     and everything was green
     and everyone said
     not to worry he was dead already
     and now he looked it
     and a couple of the boys said
     ah fuck the acid;

and London Mikey the black boy
never came back
from his next leave.
Stabbed by a white boy
in a pub in cowboy country
south of the river. National Front.
Good fucking bloke he was, Mikey,
called his house his yard.
One of the boys man.

Peace!

Later!


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from Last Night's Dream Corrected


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