The Clangers On Acid
We were young, in our twenties, living in the country,
on the dole and trying to be artists. Unfortunately
we’d chosen Perthshire, a cultural dearth, the only people
harbouring any creative urge were retired from long careers
at the Council, Hydro Electric, Norwich Union.
So we continued to feed our hollow souls with the usual
suspects – drink and drugs – the baby in bed, Brookside
on the tele, a spliff on the go and Ian dropping in from over
the road to show us how to make a chillum out of a carrot.
The three of us huddled round the coal fire like the Fates.
But soon enough we got bored of that and invited friends
from the city for dinner, dropping a tab before
we sat down for starters – the beef in red wine went largely
untouched – really I shouldn’t have bothered. Within half an hour
the wallpaper was crawling, the rag-rug a Lilliputian orgy,
embryos bobbed in the lava lamp. An hour in and the girl I hardly
knew but always liked, had thought, in fact, might enact my
lesbian fantasies later that night, was telling me about the
miscarriage she was having in my kitchen. I took a long hot bath
and tried to get a grip. It didn't work.
Within minutes it seemed the sun had come up and the baby
wanted breakfast. We watched The Clangers on video.
I was strung out for six weeks after that trip, suffering
delusions of grandeur, convinced I was the next Sylvia Plath,
ready to stick my head in that oven. And the rest?
Mostly we grew up and settled down, got mortgages and proper
jobs at the Council, the Hydro, Norwich Union. The dealer
got MS and died young and that girl, she moved to London,
never carried a child to full term.
‘The Clangers on Acid’ © Patricia Ace, first published in Gutter #4 (Freight, 2011). Reprinted by kind permission of the author.
We were young, in our twenties, living in the country,
on the dole and trying to be artists. Unfortunately
we’d chosen Perthshire, a cultural dearth, the only people
harbouring any creative urge were retired from long careers
at the Council, Hydro Electric, Norwich Union.
So we continued to feed our hollow souls with the usual
suspects – drink and drugs – the baby in bed, Brookside
on the tele, a spliff on the go and Ian dropping in from over
the road to show us how to make a chillum out of a carrot.
The three of us huddled round the coal fire like the Fates.
But soon enough we got bored of that and invited friends
from the city for dinner, dropping a tab before
we sat down for starters – the beef in red wine went largely
untouched – really I shouldn’t have bothered. Within half an hour
the wallpaper was crawling, the rag-rug a Lilliputian orgy,
embryos bobbed in the lava lamp. An hour in and the girl I hardly
knew but always liked, had thought, in fact, might enact my
lesbian fantasies later that night, was telling me about the
miscarriage she was having in my kitchen. I took a long hot bath
and tried to get a grip. It didn't work.
Within minutes it seemed the sun had come up and the baby
wanted breakfast. We watched The Clangers on video.
I was strung out for six weeks after that trip, suffering
delusions of grandeur, convinced I was the next Sylvia Plath,
ready to stick my head in that oven. And the rest?
Mostly we grew up and settled down, got mortgages and proper
jobs at the Council, the Hydro, Norwich Union. The dealer
got MS and died young and that girl, she moved to London,
never carried a child to full term.
‘The Clangers on Acid’ © Patricia Ace, first published in Gutter #4 (Freight, 2011). Reprinted by kind permission of the author.
Listen to Patricia Ace read her poem 'Saying Goodbye to My Daughter at Night'.
|
|
Watch Patricia Ace discuss her debut poetry collection Fabulous Beast (Freight).
|
|