By Ken Bruen
First lament
October made
No Autumn resolutions
Praying for
No single promise made
Success and blundered aspirations
Beat me blind
Time was, I was writing the lamentations
I was a teacher, doing good and heading for dizzy heights
Then a clusterfook of stuff happened and I literally dropped off the face of the planet
Months later, seemed like years, I resurfaced in Brixton
They used to say it was the UK version of Watts
It was certainly simmering
A real good place to hide
I’d written me first crime novel and sent it to the outlaw press, the then cutting edge of mystery, Serpents Tail
They’d published Derek Raymond
That’s all I needed to know
I was in bad shape
My mind was seriously fooked
You could buy anything in Brixton, long as you had the cash
I’d bought a Sig Sauer, the basic Model 220, 9 mm, carried nine rounds in the magazine
It was far from new and had black tape wound tight on the grip
Most nights, I’d sit in the one room kip I rented on Coldharbour Lane, not a spit away from Electric Avenue, made infamous by Eddie Grant’s hit.
Coldharbour Lane, that I’d washed up in such a place, the irony of the name was not lost on me
Most nights, I’d play The Pogues and The Clash and drink two tumblers of Jameson, never more, and then I’d play Russian Roulette
Sounds melodramatic but I just didn’t care
One of the graces of my life is I’ve always been blessed with remarkable friends
They came to me one damp wet Saturday, ignored the Jay on the table, told me of marginalized kids who nobody could or would teach
Marginalized
What an ugly word
But that’s what they used
Kids who’d been abused in every which way evil bastards can devise
Bottom line, would I take … pun intended … a shot at teaching them
Like I had so many offers
My novel was with Serpents Tail for a year … before they accepted it
I said OK, mainly to get am … rid of them
First day, I felt the old tremor of excitement of teaching, only a faint echo, barely able to recall the days when I loved it
There were 13 kids before me, all black and surly
They stared at me, not with hatred but complete indifference, another white fooking liberal asshole
2nd Lament
Blown Irish-ed Print
… broken by the London flat
Lone living cuts the style bleaker
To make one call
Intimidated
Fear carves the simplest tasks
My years of teaching had given me the ability to face most any class and just go into auto pilot and do the biz
Wasn’t going to cut it here
The usual clichés, the usual horseshite just wasn’t going to fly
Improvise
The very essence of teaching, least for me, I’d once played The Clash for a group of Japanese students
Gangsta rap or a sawn off was about all that was going to gel now
Or …
The truth
I went with that
Said
"I’m fooked."
A moment
Then they laughed
Laughing was as strange to them as to me
One kid, gap toothed, with the eyes of wounded angel, put up his hand and when I nodded
He asked
"What did they do to you?"
I told them
And so began my return to humanity
Those damaged kids healed a damaged adult
If you mentioned a book to them, they’d knife you
I re-wrote my crime novel to suit them, their streets, their jive, their melody
And snuck in a poet by the back door
When the book appeared, it was one of those moments, when the clouds part and you the see the light is nigh flowing in, those lost children running along the corridors, asking in delight
"Who’s this dude Rilke?"
My best review
Ever
3rd Lament
To score revitalized
The 100 points
In others’ condescension
A damn … they give
On sixpence turn
Six months later, the riots came
Cars, shops, homes burning, armed cops in riot gear making baton charges on Coldharbour Lane
It was not a real good time to be white
I was coming home around 10:30 in the evening, treading careful, watching the alleys and my back when on Railton Road I walked smack into a mob carrying baseball bats, knives and one guy even had a golf stick
No. 9 iron if I remember correctly
They moved on me and then one of the leaders said
"It’s the fucking Irish guy, the teacher dude."
And they split in half, allowing me to walk between them
I got back to my tiny flat, sweat cascading down my body and knew I had to write the 12th Lament
It didn’t work, the music was gone and even now, I know the lines, I even know the tone, but the magic, the magic had broken
Last year, I was in London for a launch and one evening went to Brixton, like everywhere, it was unrecognizable from the area I’d known
On a street corner, I thought I recognized the wounded angel, those eyes I’d never forget, grown now of course and nearly a man, I approached and before I could ask, he went
"Wanna score?"
I shook my head and he near spat
"Then get the fuck outa my space."
Tom Troubadours Blues, the very first line unreeled like a cobra in my head
… wasted and wounded …
Odd, I’ve lost my zest for Rilke
Go figure
KB
Fine post, as always.
but:
Sig P220? Russian Roulette???
Best,
Jacky B.
The need to survive can so easily harden a heart, but through your words Ken, their story has been told. Thank you for sharing.
I think too often writers trying to speak of worlds they know little of and therefore tell the story without the power that experience can give it. It is so easy to keep the safe distance so the vileness and horror doesn’t touch you.
But I think it takes a person of great strength to immerse themselves in that mire and yet still retain their humanity and not let it destroy them.
Astounding story, Ken — from beginning to end. But, at this point, I’ve come to expect to be transported by your gift of prose and poetry . . .
“Fear carves the simplest tasks.”
You do, indeed, write lamentations, Sir.
‘And snuck in a poet by the back door’.
Yea verily.
You certainly speak the TRUTH.
Sweet bleeding Jesus, Ken, every time I read one of your entries, I bawl my eyes out. You inspire me with your openness and skill and heart. A thousand blessings. Thanks.
Yes, tear my heart out ONCE AGAIN.
I taught juvies too, once.
It did matter, sweetheart. It did.
Forever astounded at your stories, your life, and your laments, Ken. Blessings to you this day.