Disneyland, Paris
the CEO has told the supervisors
that they need to find out
who it was
who while in the lift with the potential new clients
said, ‘here we go
up to Mickey Mouse land again’
and who when questioned by the potential new clients
as to what he meant
said, ‘whadda yer mean?
it’s like Disneyland up there man
there’s Donald Duck the control room supervisor
Peter Pan the recruitment manager
Winnie-the-Pooh the CEO
and Rapunzel and Pocahontas in charge of HR
none of them know what the fuck is going on
I went to Disneyland with my mum once when I was 8
not the proper one, like in Orlando, but Paris
it’s just like that
a fake little Disneyland’
Donald Duck, Peter Pan, Rapunzel and Pocahontas
all stormed out into the control room together
screaming and shouting
demanding to know who it was
who had shown up the company
no one said anything
no one looked at anyone
if you don’t tell us now, Donald Duck said
we will get the CCTV footage…
suddenly
Tinkerbell flew out of Peter Pan’s pocket in a rage
did four circuits around the control room
spreading her stardust everywhere
then landed back on Donald Duck’s beak
(she’s only small)
…and we’ll find out who it was, Donald Duck finished
and when we do find out who it was, Rapunzel and Pocahontas continued
we will not be very nice to them
Tinkerbell screwed up her tiny little nose
turned away from us
and let a shoot of stardust out of her arse
before jumping off Donald Duck’s beak
and flying back into Peter Pan’s pocket
then they all disappeared
like when a parade is over
or breakfast with Cinderella ends
went into one of their offices
and tried to log on to the CCTV camera on one of their computers
everyone in the control room knew
that the CCTV wouldn’t have captured who it was
even if they could find the username and password to get into it
because like everything else in there
it didn’t work
it was all make-believe
the landlord
sits in his swamp, fat as a manatee
with a full-up belly
a bank account warm as central heating
and a cigar dangling out of the corner of his mouth
the radiators have stopped functioning:
he’s away at the Grand-Prix in Monaco with his crew
wearing a pink button-down shirt
and a cashmere jumper draped over his shoulders
there’s damp started to appear on the bedroom walls:
he’s in Portugal eating sardines
there’s a woman on the end of his arm
more beautiful than Helen of Troy
more beautiful than a diamond
more beautiful than a horse
steaming under a Kentucky sun
the boiler is old; no hot water can be drawn:
he’s in Thessaloniki
up to his neck in hot stone therapy
a hand displaced
finds itself into his groin
happy endings only come for some
you fat-on-cash manatee, wallowing around buoyant – you boy-cunt – in your swamp
with your kingdom bought off the back of old council stock
handed over by capitalism’s refugees
bought from pimps, bought from MPs
with your iron boot that’s not for turning up when repairs get mentioned
busying away with your lawyers, your monks and nuns draped in words
tapping out no-fault eviction notices
because you didn’t like the tone of the tenant’s prayer
summoning up your stormtroopers with batons and beards
to bash down doors, to bash down lives
as our children ask and wonder
where will we be able to sleep tonight, Daddy
never mind what’s coming
over the horizon of your filthy empire
how we make men
In Mongolia
they put 10-year-old boys on the back of wild horses then smack that wild horse’s rump so that it runs off like the wind hoping that at some stage that 10-year-old boy after all the falls and fails will learn how to tame that horse and become a man
In Australia
10-year-old boys who are darker than the invaders are still taken out by the Elders into that lonely place and made to sit there for days and nights without any food or water until they give up and need to come back to their mothers and sisters half-broken hopefully knowing then what it means if they want to even be considered a man
In Peru
10-year-old boys are made to stand on the edge of cliffs with a rope tied around their waists held and fed more slack by their fathers and uncles until they are gradually shown what it is like to stare over the precipice so that they too can hopefully come back and value what they have more which is a needy soul and needy heart like all men have
In London
10-year-old boys live with alcoholic mothers who hook up with junkie uncles and then run away to hide under the stairs in the hoover cupboard only to come out at 18 when everyone is dead with the whole world expecting them to be men
In Gaza
10-year-old boys sit in the back of Datsun Cherry’s holding onto their grandmother’s hand who has just had one of her legs blown off by an Israeli State missile rushing her to the hospital that when they get there will be unable to help because another Israeli State missile has also hit that hospital in the same ruthless attack
Periodically, because of the needs of men, mothers and grandmothers will die in a 10-year-old’s arms
Meanwhile, in America
they put red MAGA baseball caps on those same 10-year-old boys’ heads and take them off to Trump rallies or plonk them on grass verges at demonstrations outside abortion clinics while getting their sisters to hold placards in their hands while encouraging both of them to lift them up into the sky and scream
‘IF YOU LOVE ME,
YOU WILL KEEP MY COMANDMENTS!’
Everywhere around the world
10-year-old boys are being taught
how to become men
all of the wars
I remember when he was 10
coming back from work
knowing he’d already have all of his plastic soldiers
spread out across his bedroom floor
the green ones, his side
all in strategically placed positions
forty riflemen lined up behind two upturned trainers
twelve snipers placed in elevated positions
two of which he’d have got his mother to help him with
lifting him up
so he could place them perfectly just peering over the rim
of his blue-glass flying-saucer light fitting that hung from the ceiling
and the four SAS men
he’d secretly wrap up in a blanket stuffed in a corner behind enemy lines
ready to break cover
and shoot bullets into the enemy’s back
just in case his plan went wrong
putting his index finger up to his lips
as his mother said to him, that’s a bit sneaky, isn’t it?
before returning to the battlefield
to place the grey soldiers, my side
in open territory
taking no care in their placement
apart from standing them up
all of them clustered and exposed
in one big clump of a battalion
right there in the middle of the floor
I remember coming in
after another 11-hour shift
wanting to flop on the couch
open a bottle of beer
and let the day drain from me
but no
there were more wars to fight
and he’d drag me by the hand
pulling me onto the battlefield
and then show me this bowl
which had two marbles in it
which once chosen
we’d take it in turns
rolling them at the enemy
with the last plastic soldier left still standing
being the winner
one marble was a Kinger
and the other one an 8th of its size
Jupiter against the moon
you can probably guess
who got which marble
and when my grey soldiers were nearly all knocked over dead
I’d say to him
hold on, hold on
I surrender
I want to make a treaty with you
and then he’d go
a treaty?
a treaty?
you are in no position to demand a treaty
I am going to wipe you out
and take all your land and crops
I was only reminded of this today
while sitting in a coffee shop
ear-wigging the couple sat next to me
the man telling his wife
about all the atrocities he was reading about on his phone
how the war was close to becoming too much to bear
her not even bothering to look up from her phone
just asking him back
which one?
Martin Hayes