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letra de nothing important - richard dawson

i am born by caesarian section at 9: 30 am
in princess mary’s maternity hospital
on the 24th may, sixty years ago today,
dangled by the ankle, smacked across the b-m,
swaddled in a blanket howling like a wheel.
my big brother iain on his tip-toes hisses ‘i don’t like him’.
he’s maradona, i’m peter beardsley, chasing a ball through the mud
followed by the kitchen window, bellowing through the fern:
‘boys! dinner’s ready!’
dad is tuning in the telly beyond a heaving mountain of spaghetti hoops.

i am nothing
you are nothing
nothing important
death within a dream

petrified on the back of a pedallo in the balearic sea off alcudia
i can see the ghost of my uncle derek waving to us from the beach,
gently drifting out of reach,
the telephone reciever swinging by its cord,
a gl-ss of broken beer expanding on the lino.
my mam slips into the coffin
a polaroid of his sweetheart
clutching good-luck bear i peer gingerly over the side,
press my nose up to the tide,
and there behold a barracuda chewing on a chrysanthemum
and a family of clownfish hovering in the corpse’s hair.

in the scullery of the cub-hut my clarinet falls
into a sack of flour – a flurry of pins
squashed into the leather handle
a crescent moon of stricken fig-wasps.
drizzling my fingers with the magic sponge
dad says ‘we’ll probably have to chop them off’.
he collapses like a canvas tent on the floodlit astroturf
rent with a fibula guide-rod poking a hole through his shin
there are teardrops in his moustache
charging a flute of champagne
down the aisle and out for a throw-in
a st.john ambulance careers between the sugary pillars of the wedding cake

a crystal spoon
a pewter tankard
these words inscribed upon the base:
happy retirement best granddad in the world
a toby jug filled to the brim with curtain hooks
a sheepskin rug discoloured with tobacco smoke
within it’s braids concealed a rank
of plastic soldiers set to burst underfoot
berwick in oils: a skiff on the swollen tweed
cradling a false pearl
a ceramic seraph
with an ashtray for a brain
– and i don’t care about these things
why do they remain so clear while the faces of my loved ones disappear?

a rington’s plate
a forking hairline seam of superglue through the black gate
a digital photoframe
frozen on an blurry orange thumb
i remember all these things
old karate trophies
i am tethered by these things
thimbles and pesatas
i remember all these things
a roll of woolworth’s price stickers
i can see all these things but
where have all my people gone?

in the end it wasn’t meant to be.
he was the most beautiful thing that i had ever seen.
he survived for seven days
before he slipped away

- richard dawson

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