by Martin Hayes
Marcus hasn’t been doing too well lately
his woman left him last week and two months before that
his mother died
so his performance stats, which are usually up in the high 90s
are down now in the middle 80s
so supervisor Glyn, who’s never been a big fan of Marcus
despite his 25 years of service and ridiculously good sick note record
decides that this is the chance he’s been waiting for
goes over to him in the control room
and in front of everyone else
asks him aggressively what the fuck is up
why’re you continually running late on your scheduled jobs
haven’t you got enough couriers out there
or are you just not up to the job anymore
all of us wince
this is so out of place
and uncalled for
like if a striker for a football team
who’s been scoring 40 goals a season for years
suddenly goes 5 or 6 games
without scoring
then being given the hairdryer treatment
in front of everyone else in the team
just because the boss in the SS cap can
Marcus looks up at supervisor Glyn who’s standing over him
thinks for a moment
before deciding to launch himself up from his controller’s chair
directing his head so that it smacks right underneath supervisor Glyn’s chin
everyone can hear the crack
and see supervisor Glyn’s glasses fly off into the air
only to land in Antoine’s lap
Supervisor Glyn recoils in shock
before falling melodramatically to the floor
writhing about a bit like a snake
before slowly trying to get back up onto his hands and knees
holding his bloodied chin in his hands
unsure of what to do
he looks around to see where his glasses have gone
unable to find them he looks up at Marcus
who is now standing over him
and mutters up through the blood frothing with spit coming out of his mouth
that you’ve crossed over the line this time mate
that when head-supervisor Harry and HR get to hear about this
you’ll be out on the streets without a job
like the cocky twat you’ve always been deserves
and on my tube trip home that night I thought about how brave Marcus was
how he reminded me of Spartacus of Loverture of Eric Cantona before those William Hill adverts
of Bukowski before he could afford that lawn and an Olivetti
of those kamikaze pilots who’d fly their planes into US aircraft carriers
leaving behind women and children in Tokyo, Kyoto and Denver and Tampa
with no one left to pay the rent or feed them
just because their men found themselves in a war they didn’t start
of Raul Zarita
who poured acid into his eyes on the steps of that town hall
just because he couldn’t take seeing what Pinochet’s henchmen were doing to his people anymore
of Navalny
who even though he knew he would be imprisoned and slowly killed
flew from his safe nest in Berlin back to Moscow to take Putin on
how seeing Marcus go back at supervisor Glyn like that
for belittling him in front of all of his colleagues
was like listening to the music that rings out of an old Mississippi blues guitar
a banjo on the banks of a swamp
a trumpet in a London Underground station
a harmonica in the hands of a homeless man sitting in a Costa shop doorway
blowing out of his mouth Bob Dylan’s Hurricane for the thousandth time
the music the anger
that comes out of every man or woman’s heart
when they believe in something
but have been pushed too far too much to the brink to allow it to continue
without doing something
about it
This poem was first published in Neil Fulwood’s Chain-Link, in support of Kneecap.
