Heroin Lullaby: A Poem By Bobby Parker | The Quietus

Heroin Lullaby: A Poem By Bobby Parker

Sidestepping the format on this rare occasion, this week's new writing comes by way of a visceral and emotionally fraught single poem from Quietus-favourite Bobby Parker

Bobby Parker, born 1982, lives in Kidderminster, England. His publications include the critically acclaimed experimental books Ghost Town Music and Comberton, both published by Knives Forks & Spoons Press.

His first full-length poetry collection Blue Movie will be published by Nine Arches Press in 2015.

Heroin Lullaby (or Open Letter To My Wife Upon Our Separation)

Now that we are separate ghosts, I hope at least

one of us can make the living scream,

learn how to shapeshift, throw a poltergeist

wind into the bleeding world. I noticed the mirror

I hate is back in the hallway, and you’ve stopped

asking me to do stuff. You look after our daughter,

look after me, cook, clean, change cat litter,

feed Keith the Goldfish that hates me…

You do everything – without you things would

actually die. All I do is sleep, melt potent downers

under my sore tongue, occasionally wanking

half-heartedly onto my least favourite t-shirt.

You pay bills, visit my folks and fetch the shopping.

I daydream about heroin the way

some people describe their mother’s cooking,

or that weird stag night in Germany with the magic

mushrooms and prostitute stun guns, or how it feels

to cum so hard you temporarily go blind and lie laughing

beside a girl with eyes like eerie twilight coastlines.

Marriage – Parenthood – I knocked once

for YES when maybe I should’ve flew back

into the skull we used as an ashtray. You kissed

the wine-stained Ouija board; I slapped a silver crucifix

off the wall. You shook the house until our daughter’s toys

fell into the hole we dance around, the big fucking hole

of us, getting bigger every day, currently the size

of two sleeping lovers curled into a perfect spoon.

Yes, now that we are separate spirits, howling

and rolling desperate nights between our ringless

fingers like squidgy black dope, I hope one of us

can appear smiling in a photograph.

Prove that something else exists.

Maybe even save this… Of course, I feel

guilty about not doing anything around the house,

I’m due to leave any day now, but since you stopped

asking I’ve become so lazy and self-absorbed.

I think crap like ‘what does the word SORRY

remind me of?’ (a perfectly round, razor-thin sheet

of glass, spinning above the bed) and ‘what does

my name taste like?’ (a fat, greasy burger

on a small, soggy bun). I stand

at the top of the stairs in my filthy blue

dressing gown and lean forward a bit,

then a bit more, flirting with the fall,

listening to you make our daughter laugh,

singing lullabies and praising her sharp little mind.

This tapping on my teeth with the point

of a sacrificial knife! This pulling at my dirty

nails with squeaky pliers! It hurts so much

my thoughts are like the horrid steam I saw

rising from a bald man’s head in karate class

when I was ten years old and terrified of aliens.

It hurts so much I think my skin is dangerous.

The pain of leaving when you don’t know

for sure. I worry the angels want to rub me out

and replace me with a brilliant pencil sketch of hands,

just two loving hands, holding each other, you know

the way, like under a table with candles perhaps,

or between those awkward airport chairs,

or in outer space watching the earth change colour,

burn off, and fade like a vicious love-bite, reminiscing

about good times until we run out of oxygen

and silently drift apart in the shimmering ink

of infinite mystery, our phones full of text messages

we couldn’t bring ourselves to delete, the summer

photos and giggling videos. Those heart-stabbing

notes to self: ‘Help them more’, ‘Buy her flowers’,

‘Never be the one who turns out the light’.

Don’t Miss The Quietus Digest

Start each weekend with our free email newsletter.

Help Support The Quietus in 2025

If you’ve read something you love on our site today, please consider becoming a tQ subscriber – our journalism is mostly funded this way. We’ve got some bonus perks waiting for you too.

Subscribe Now