positivism like her hubby: How’s your day been, darling? Oh just fine, thank you, and yours? Oh, you know, mustn’t complain. Life’s too short. That sort of exchange. Kissing each other hello: mmmm-uh! And a mirrored wink for the laters to come. Then the kids, falling over themselves to greet the father. Hey, Dad! Hey, Dad! Guess what? Guess what! (I seen it on the tv. At the movies sometimes. Ya only have to watch Cosby to know that some people they do live really happy lives, even when they’re having their downers. Stability. It’s the stability they got that people like me don’t have, that’s what it is. (Is it? How would I know?) Things get sorted out. Problems, big and small, they get resolved. And sure it’s only a tv family of actors – but it’s still based on sumpin, ain’t it? Like, if the acted situation exists, then so can the reality, can’t it? Oh God, I don’t know …)
Staring into the rain-filled space where’d strode the Whistler. Man, I bet he fucks her tonight. Probably why he’s got sumpin to whistle about. I would too I had a real nice someone to go home to. Rain, hail or snow, too. Not for Mr Whistler some picked-up slut from barlife sleazeville, or at a party where the sleaze moved their activities to; a sheila who chews gum or smokes a fag while you’re trying to reach her, find that sumpin special of womanhood a dude like you needs to find or it’s all fucking meaningless, it may as well be a sheep from a paddock, a piece of meat that ya hump in and out of till you’re spent. You wanna show her your specialness of tender concern, your depth of unnerstaning, you ain’t no Jube McCall wanting only to shove her down on your meat as he calls it.
Nope, none of this type for you, Mr Whistler, you and yours’llbe loving, and journeying the depths of each other, I know ya will. Not like a Tavi moll who’s all wrong timing and harsh kisses and untender touch. And talking like that Lyn of Tawa on the tv: Sunnee, didja like me straightaway when ya firz saw me? Or you’ll be inside her and she’ll wanna know what kinda car do ya drive, Sunnee? Is it fast? Is it a Vee-ate? So yeah, Mr Whistler, not for you dying inside her because of sumping she said that was not near of the moment.
Ya wouldn’t unnerstan, Mr and Mrs, that our girls, our women , are basic functions of crude back motive, of: What’s it worth if I let you have your way, Sunnee? Of dry twat and hard-kissing lips. Not for your Mrs Whistler to fail to reach your partner; it, love, is a refined process for you both. It is part of the great reflection of having class and breeding, and a little bit of money probably helps too, though it ain’t necessary, not on its own. (I’ve read it somewhere … Oh, I know: was a book, that’s right. I was only young, a teenager – Jesus, it was borstal. Borstal. And I was doing solitary. Just sixteen and doing solitary.)
Insolence to an officer, that’s what the charge was. Seven days in the Digger on number two diet. Teenagers, mere teenagers, and they were throwing us into cells for periods of solitary confinement, and on specified diets according to the gravity of the crime. Number one was cold potatoes, glass of milk, piece of bread for three meals a day three days on end, full normal rations on the fourth, then back to another regime of number one. It was assumed to be civilised. Number two was dripping to spread on the bread, and porridge for breakfast, soup and bread and dripping spread for lunch, spuds, bread and milk for tea.
They woke you up each morning, the six separated cells of you, at five thirty. A warning bang on your steel door, you had five minutes to get your bed made up in the required bedroll formation. You were unlocked separately to take your bedding to an empty cell, or if occupied, out behind the steel-grille entry door; and you collected it again, under escort, at nine at night. (When I was just sixteen.)
On your second day, two officers came to your
Staring into the rain-filled space where’d strode the Whistler. Man, I bet he fucks her tonight. Probably why he’s got sumpin to whistle about. I would too I had a real nice someone to go home to. Rain, hail or snow, too. Not for Mr Whistler some picked-up slut from barlife sleazeville, or at a party where the sleaze moved their activities to; a sheila who chews gum or smokes a fag while you’re trying to reach her, find that sumpin special of womanhood a dude like you needs to find or it’s all fucking meaningless, it may as well be a sheep from a paddock, a piece of meat that ya hump in and out of till you’re spent. You wanna show her your specialness of tender concern, your depth of unnerstaning, you ain’t no Jube McCall wanting only to shove her down on your meat as he calls it.
Nope, none of this type for you, Mr Whistler, you and yours’llbe loving, and journeying the depths of each other, I know ya will. Not like a Tavi moll who’s all wrong timing and harsh kisses and untender touch. And talking like that Lyn of Tawa on the tv: Sunnee, didja like me straightaway when ya firz saw me? Or you’ll be inside her and she’ll wanna know what kinda car do ya drive, Sunnee? Is it fast? Is it a Vee-ate? So yeah, Mr Whistler, not for you dying inside her because of sumping she said that was not near of the moment.
Ya wouldn’t unnerstan, Mr and Mrs, that our girls, our women , are basic functions of crude back motive, of: What’s it worth if I let you have your way, Sunnee? Of dry twat and hard-kissing lips. Not for your Mrs Whistler to fail to reach your partner; it, love, is a refined process for you both. It is part of the great reflection of having class and breeding, and a little bit of money probably helps too, though it ain’t necessary, not on its own. (I’ve read it somewhere … Oh, I know: was a book, that’s right. I was only young, a teenager – Jesus, it was borstal. Borstal. And I was doing solitary. Just sixteen and doing solitary.)
Insolence to an officer, that’s what the charge was. Seven days in the Digger on number two diet. Teenagers, mere teenagers, and they were throwing us into cells for periods of solitary confinement, and on specified diets according to the gravity of the crime. Number one was cold potatoes, glass of milk, piece of bread for three meals a day three days on end, full normal rations on the fourth, then back to another regime of number one. It was assumed to be civilised. Number two was dripping to spread on the bread, and porridge for breakfast, soup and bread and dripping spread for lunch, spuds, bread and milk for tea.
They woke you up each morning, the six separated cells of you, at five thirty. A warning bang on your steel door, you had five minutes to get your bed made up in the required bedroll formation. You were unlocked separately to take your bedding to an empty cell, or if occupied, out behind the steel-grille entry door; and you collected it again, under escort, at nine at night. (When I was just sixteen.)
On your second day, two officers came to your
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