Tristan Hazell lives and works in the shadow of the Westway on Portobello Road. What follows is a collection of observations, reviews, social comment, fiction, poetry, art criticism and more. Much of it is fiction and some of it will offend someone somewhere, I hope.

Saturday, March 14, 2015

Mothers day for the now generation.

The boys came home at three
they are not my boys by the way
but my partners boys but my boys all the same
I love them as best I can
it is harder to love someone else's boys
loving your own boys comes easy by comparison
but i love them as best i can

i love the way they hate me for not being their dad

the boys make me think hard every day

the boys came home at three
after three hours with their dad killing time
killing time like they do each week or whenever their dad deems to turn up
killing time, killing respect, killing love


the boys came home at three
and said they had asked their dad
if they could buy something for mummy for mothers day
he said no.

Yes he said no
no shit he said no

the boys came home at three
after their dad had said that they could not buy their mummy
a mothers day present
because tomorrow
tomorrow
tomorrow, when mummy is having a lie in
you can go out and buy something with Jan

the boys came home at three
having completely lost respect for their father and hating me for that

I love the way they hate me for not being their dad

of course i will take them out shopping


On mothers day.

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