Robbie Taylor

I don’t write for therapeutic reasons, or as a means of catharsis.

My dad had  a  Toyota Catharsis  and it was a terrible ride, so I write for the simple reason that writing is easy, writing is a bumpless road paved with good inflections… once you don’t concern yourself with quality… or critique… or self-awareness… manage that, and writing is easy, honestly, so simple that even I can do it. Plays are hard though, as in technically, as in remembering who said what and to whom, that sort of thing, and poems, poems are hard, not just the rhyming, but the non-rhyming ones as well, and novels, they are sooooooo long and you have to be careful you don’t forget what they are about, and short stories are really hard, harder than novels because you have to say as much but not write as much… yeah, writing is really easy, really really easy.


Come at me with sticks and stones
and other words to hurt my bones
because beneath the skin not deep within
you will find the Great Pretender.
Words are my shields, and yet your swords
the arms you wield,my waterboards,
you hold me down so I may drown,
and gargle my surrender.
And what words do you seem to find,
to bruise my heart and torment my mind,
you speak in tongues to right your wrongs,
and I have never hurt so tender.
My silence screams internally
as you devil me infernally
but I wont tell, of my living hell,
why would I share that splendour.
So I pretend I do not care
my broken soul way past repair
so I smile tightly and politely
for disguise is my only legal tender.
And though I know the words that you all use
to ridicule, and to abuse
I will not say them nor obey them..
nor will I return them to their sender.
I used to crave that microphone,
to be a crowd, and yet be all alone,
in that bright pause before polite applause,
and all else that pity would engender.
And so my final bow upon the stage
is not my final word upon the page
but your false praise was still worth those days
when you saw inside the Great Pretender.


Mum's lap was never made available,
her final word was unassailable,
our story of motherly love an unshared fable...
and so, Mother was just a word to me.
My mum was not a hen that clucked,
her nest was where she clean and cooked.
where shoes were dull and shirts untucked,
she was just a pecking bird to me.
She never claimed her bosom was our own,
a Mother's loving kiss was a kiss we'd never known,
her love spoke spare in monotone,
a child, that was how she referred to me.
No birthday parties. No day trips out,
a good day was when she didn't shout,
and a better one was one without a clout,
a bare hand. That was how she deferred to me.
And now. And now she lies cold beneath the earth,
and if I smile it is without my eyes or any mirth,
for buried deep there lies my mother's worth,
so celebrating today has never once occurred to me.
She is only a Mother, now that she's passed away...
and if I was ever to call her so,
then today is not that day.


I dive between her legs, beneath the covers,
convincing myself I am the first, the only,
believing her silence on the matter,
means there have been no other lovers,
that no other explorers have come this way.
She moans and groans her gratitude for my busy lips
and I gently hold her by her hips,
and do what I do best.
I'm good, I'm awesome, highly skilled,
she will be satisfied, her expectations filled,
for I am Amundsen, I am Scott, I am Conquistador,
I will unearth every treasure she has ever wished for,
my tongue is a Viking longboat, a Polar sled,
a submarine,
It explores parts of her I pretend no man has ever been,
I taste her salty brine in my saliva
I am Cousteau
I am Sinbad,
I am a National Geographic deep sea diver,
and I know what will be coming soon,
I will plant plant my flag like Armstrong did when he claimed the moon,
I am Hilary on Everest, climbing her peaks of pleasure, holding me aloft,
I am Bonnington,
I am Sherpa,
I am Brian Blessed.....shit, now I'm going soft...
she squirms as if she senses my mind has wandered
but I am back, to find the worlds lesser men have never pondered,
I am brilliant, I am amazing, I am thorough,
I am Aldrin,
I am Columbus,
I am Darwin,
I am David bloody Attenborough,
I work in silence as does she,
my tongue too busy,
and she incoherent, disorientated, dizzy,
like my grandma... shit, I'm going soft again,
I must be brave for her, must get that dragon slain,
for I am St George,
I am... the finger,
the finger, slender, determined, a fleshy arrow,
I watch its descent, I watch it hover over every inch of where I rocked her world, of where I kissed,
and as her finger gently comes to rest, I die a little,
as it has landed on the world of her own discovery....
and the only part I missed.

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