POEMS 1998-2023: The Golgog of Glen Rosa
From the Seminal Collection
by Damian Bullen
Old Malakai pick’d up a knife
& stuck his ‘fucking boring wife,’
Then drove around & park’d the car
& acted normal in a bar.
He drain’d his glass, he stepp’d outside,
The sea had wash’d up with the tide,
He thought at first to wade within
& cleanse his life of guilt & sin.
He threw, instead, his phone into
Those murky waters, then he drew
All of his wages from the bank,
For seven days just drank & drank.
His wife’s young brother call’d & call’d,
Persistence pains, excuses stall’d,
“I’m coming down tomorrow, man,”
Old Malakai conjur’d a plan,
He’d leave forever Milton Keynes;
A jumper, coat, a pair of jeans,
A t-shirt & a paperback,
Was all his life was, in a sack.
He caught a train to London Town,
The police search’d for him up & down,
He shaved his beard & wore a hat,
Then chang’d his name & found a flat.
He dared not work, nor too far go,
With money on a one-way flow,
It dwindl’d in a dire descent,
Until he could not pay the rent.
Without a hope, without a name,
The killer’s curse a face of fame,
So, off he wander’d to the wild
Of Scotland where the mountains piled.
He found a glen, he built a camp,
The summer short, the autumn damp,
The winter cold, spring barely better,
Wilder, windier & wetter,
Where he will wander all year round,
Still fidgety at every sound,
His hat is torn, his beard is black,
& sometimes, weird, along the track,
He shuffles past the tourists, who
Will look a bit like me & you,
You’ll know him by his lary look,
A monster in a scary book,
That stares at you without a wink,
& as you smell his dreadful stink,
Please, hurry past, no don’t engage,
Else loose that killer from his cage.
For killers kill until they’re caught,
He’ll clamp his hands around your throat
& squeeze until your breath is gone,
Another dead, another one
Has vanish’d in the forest slutch;
A Swede, a German, & a Dutch,
A Fifer from Dalgety Bay,
Don’t be the next one he ‘gan slay.
Yes, hurry past, avert your eyes,
For contact makes his fevers rise,
& never slouch a wee look back
For he’ll be crouching on the track,
Drooling at you with sneer’d intent,
A predator whose caught the scent,
Stood waiting for the trigger-glance,
No don’t look back, this is your chance!
Escape, escape, get out the glen,
Catch ferries back, go home & then
Old Malakai push from your mind,
You’ve left that bastard far behind;
Where, mentally he’s masticating
Flesh, & later masturbating,
Over bones where you & me
Might pass into posterity.
Malakai stands salivating,
Thro’ the skull-bone of your head
Drills bulging eyes of bloodshot red.
He’s waiting for your face to turn,
With eyes that bleed, with eyes that burn,
The pull is fierce, the urge is strong,
A thousand thoughts about us throng.
But don’t look back, what e’er you do,
I know you’re really wanting to,
He could be coming now, you think,
Is that his breath upon the brink?
Are those his feet that closer thud?
Are you about to bleed your blood
Within this glen of shallow graves,
Of screams & chases, rapes & caves,
Where Malakai is now Golgog,
The grunt of boar, the face of frog,
The deathless Arran Al-Sameri,
Tortur’d by eternal, dreary
Fate eternal outcasts share,
Like Buttadeus, unaware
Offended Heaven, for all time,
Condemns him to repeat this crime.
So, Syracuse to Zaragoza,
Never venture to Glen Rosa,
Malakai seeks murders new,
He’s kill’d his wife, now he’ll kill you!