So what will we do?

Michael Mullen

So what will we do?

So what will we do?
For oor forgotten crop of boys, swinging fae
Scotland’s trees, a flock of strangled gasps.
Ringtones bleatin oot their tunes
becoming missed calls, texts chime
- Mike where are you?
- Jim I’m starting tae worry noo.
- Gonnae answer me.
Thatcher cleared yer fathers oot the factories
and noo yer sons hing fae their structures.
Rivers swollen fae the bulk of fleshy pebbles,
boys tryin tae disappear intae an intimate stoned darkness.
Fur that tic-tic-tickin of unpaid tic bills
Canny just be the gear, the fear and the pills
for some boys the dawn just seems to sear
a little more vicious.
Hawdin on tae health
lit it was an icey drippin in June.
Then it’s the shimmerin sing of silver on bone,
as trains get cancelled commuters tutt and curse
chokin tae git hame.
And Facebook is a graveyard, statuses flash their epitaphs
Canny believe that’s big Deccy passed, sleep tight ma man.

Gone but no forgotten.
And menchies left oan walls are
lit scribble doon screams fae the other side,
So what will we do?
Fur the daddy-less, boys scared of attraction
eyes fixed to a point in the changing rooms
rejectin erections, rejected by family
ejected into early heavens
for the little forever boys,
joinin the nameless plague.
Fur the mammies, blowin incantations
intae strong tea by the T.V’s blue light.
The absences of smoke. The fuller fridge.
-
They dine in fur two’s are awfae big int they?
-
I widnae know hen I canny eat.
Toxic masculinity has went and gone caustic
fizzin oan the soul, corrosive.
The only harvest to speak of this year is loss,
as boys blink oot
like the lights in a Tenement windae.
So what will we do?