Scars and stripes
He figures himself a peaceable man,
Makes others happy whenever he can,
Goes out of his way, tries not to upset,
He’s friendly, agreeable, chatty and yet,
If you take a closer look at his face,
You’ll see faded scars all over the place;
I asked him one time, how they came to be;
Those cicatrices and he said to me:
The ones on his forehead and on his nose,
Came after somebody randomly chose
To pick up a bottle and viciously
Ram it in his features maliciously.
Being by his features compelled to stare,
I observed a deep indentation there,
Between the marks on his nose and forehead,
Of which the cause has already been said.
The indent came via a sovereign ring,
A big burly bouncer brandishing bling,
And five bully beefs, more bouncers indeed,
Assisting their friend in his hour of need.
My interviewee was pushed to the ground,
Subjected to kicks and punches face-bound,
His nose pulverised, was crushed like a grape,
Hence healing permanently out of shape.
Just underneath his bottom lip, I saw
A mark from when he was given what for;
Why what for was given he had no clue,
But a hole was made where a tooth went through.
He ran to his house, gave the wound a clean,
Unwrapped a plaster, applied Germolene,
Couldn’t recall an action or word
Of provocation to what had occurred;
His lip was split, with a hole underneath,
But he felt relief having lost no teeth,
Before he retired resigned to brute force
And ignorance, being par for the course.
In subsequent years, he was derided,
Fists and bottles with his face collided,
But wary of rhymes exceeding distance,
I’ll cut straight to the piece de resistance;
For so I considered the five inch scar
I saw on his neck, the largest by far.
I begged of his pardon, asking him how
And why, but he was fair talkative now
And he told me a tale of terror, pain,
A dice with death and a jugular vein;
A horror story, worthy of mention,
Hopefully bound to keep your attention.
He said he got it in the Falkland’s war;
A shell exploded as he came ashore
And then, he admitted, that was a lie,
It was a stray bullet, a gangster drive-by;
Oh no, sorry it was a terrorist,
In Syria: a female jihadist;
And then again, maybe, it could’ve been,
Something that happened when he was a teen;
A would be killer, never convicted.
But in truth, it was
A self-inflicted,
Drug-related, attempted suicide
And the night it happened,
He nearly died.
As he related his horror story
Of deep neck wounds and other things gory,
A random stranger, from out of nowhere,
Hovered by the table, pulled up a chair
And with an air of vexation and hate,
Said to him, your stories are bullshit mate
To which he replied, by turning his cheek,
Adopting a look decidedly meek.
Abruptly he left, said, goodbye my friend,
Thus bringing our interview to an end;
The stranger retreated back to the bar;
In short, the event was very bizarre.
He figures himself a peaceable man,
Makes others happy whenever he can,
Goes out of his way, tries not to upset,
He’s friendly, agreeable, chatty and yet…
…There’s something about him, I know not what,
That seems to ignite, more often than not,
Aggression and anger in certain types,
Resulting in injuries, scars and stripes
And dear audience, though in the end,
My interviewer is one of pretend,
The interviewee’s a truthful design;
The scars and stripes and beatings, are mine.
