Jolly Good Show(For Lyn) Poem by Dónall Dempsey

All day
stuck up this bloody tree
in the middle of bloody nowhere.

All the landscape
shrunk to this crossroads

like the crosshairs
on a gun sight

brings the distance
into focus.

“Bloody Nora! ”
He swears to himself
and laughs.

His mother’s name was Nora.

Always thought it was hilarious
to swear by her.

Remembers one time
as a boy

swearing at her:

“And eh by gum
she didn’t half hit me hard! ”

“Blood seeping through the gum
still taste the taste of it
on my tongue
bloody ‘orrible it was!
hated it ever since.”

“Now, look whatcha made me done! ”
she hollered at him.

“Yes…sorry our Mum! ”

He didn’t dare cry
‘cos she’d hit for crying!

“She was a hard one…our Mum!
Had to be with us bloody lot!

She were fun though when she were happy! ”

He hoped to God
that his man
would come

so he could kill him
and be done.

Didn’t know him
from Adam

(leader of the insurgents
capable of getting men around him) .

“Dangerously
Charismatic! ”

Better dead
to keep the British

peace alive
as the Empire lay dying.

The sun setting
dying him a golden brown.

“If he don’t come soon
I won’t have the light
to kill him.”

“Remembering shooting game
with our Dad

rabbit…pheasant
up ‘eath
in sunlight such as this.”

The dangly bloody rabbit
turning into next night’s stew

eating a celebration
of what you can do
do well...kill.

How he came to be
here

up a bloody gum tree
gun in hand…staring

waiting for a man
to kill.

Same bloody thing.

Simple bloody plan!

Waiting 3 days now
and no
man.

“Keep your position
...over.”

“Maintain radio silence.”

“Report in when job done.”

“Roger ok that
...over & out.”

“Eager to get job done so I can go bloody ‘ome! ”

“Didn’t believe it
myself
until I seed it! ”

Dot
in the distance

translating itself
into a man.

Just enough light left
for killing.

“And now, put out the light
...put out the light! ”

He muttered to himself.

Bloody Othello!
The only Shakespeare he knew.

“A lass I once knew
A real brain & chatter box! ”

“ I only ever wanted to get into her knickers
& the only way to do so was to listen…so I listened.”

“Trying to teach bloody me
Proper English

and she bloody well Scottish!

Bloody cheek!
...och aye...but nooo! ”

The crossroads
funnel him into

the killing
spot

“Trot trot trot trot!
like Noye’s THE HIGHWAYMAN!

Why think of
Majorie Wallace and her bloody poetry now!

No poetry
in killing

just plain
bloody prose.

Dead is dead is dead.

A blown rose
fading on the periphery of his vision.

The crosshairs
come to rest

like a deadly spider
on the rider’s face.

He’s bloody grinning.

The man doesn’t even know
he’s already dead!

Won’t even know
what’s hit him!

(Probably thinking of a sweetheart
and getting her into bloody bed)

Just like I am.

Just the gentlest
of squeezes

like stroking a lassie’s clit
(Oh Marjorie bloody Wallace!)

Then that’s it!
The rifle spits and speaks

in the language of the dead

and only one man understands
what’s said.

And where there was a head
there is no head.

You see it only
for the briefest of seconds

and can’t really believe it!

How the head blossoms!

Like a sudden flower
and then fades

in that
instant.

Mindless now...

he plucks
the faded rose

(or whatever it is it’s
called around here)

reminds him of
England.

Pops it into
an amo pocket.

Good clean kill.

Head shot – one shot.

Tries to pretend...
but it always hits him hard

taking a closer look
at his handiwork.

Kicks the body:

“You poor stupid bloody fucker! ”

“ A man
no less
a man
than I am...”

Faceless.

Lying there
in the dirt
as he were only having a kip.

Becoming dirt.

Breaks radio silence:
“Come and bloody well pick me up! ”

“Jolly well done! ”

The radio cackles back.

“Jolly good show! ”