It Exploded In My Face

 

It Exploded In My Face

 

Some of life’s minor trials are unexpected –

putting up the moose head,

one bell a semi-tone higher

than another – you could end up dead,

probably not forever, though.

When it goes off, you’re practising bass:

‘Another One Bites the Dust’, tasting

an acciaccatura from open A to G

you feel the downstroke, don’t see

what Deacon’s doing, per se – until

some Irish kids set fire to their kitchen.

Professionals? Doughnuts, you might think,

chucking cold water from the sink

onto a blazing hot fat chip pan –

little wonder they’re forever ordering out

and they put these hungover lager louts

in front of classrooms full of infants

Sunday through Thursday. They’re skint

halfway through the month, with cisterns

flushed, protesting about overwork.

Soon, you’re outside watching the car park

overflow with half-cut kids all trademark

mini-dresses, vests, coiffured chests,

still half-dressed in their Thursday best,

tattoos and scars from the night before –

the police and firemen guard the door

while some poor sod - skipping stairs

with an extinguisher – kicks a fifth floor

door down, keeping an eye out for clowns.

An hour later, pick up bass where you left off,

tacitly admiring craftsmanship – doff

your cap to years of trial and error,

practice, skill and his sheer bloody grit –

you don’t let your mind shift

to what transpired or was witnessed:

liken it to scripts that Dahl had rejected,

when writing ‘Tales of the Most Expected’.