Almanac Poetry: ‘Nicotine’ – Tommy Mallet

 

 

 

Nicotine

 

Tommy’s 12, slowly leaning back,
to stay
under a syrupy blanket
of grey smoke, descending over the
dinner table.
Eventually, he’s an ironing board.

 

His overweight mother ignores him,
lighting yet another
Camel unfiltered,
inhaling with that loud, sucking sound,
through exposed, tar-stained
teeth.

 

“Cut it out, you fucking
drama queen!” she snaps.

 

He can’t help it.
The stuff gives him headaches,
she refuses to believe exist.

 

If fills his lungs,
water’s his eyes,
saturates his clothes,
his room,
the house.

 

He’s decided, today, he won’t eat it, too.

 

The more she smokes and talks
as she eats,
the more the bath ring haze limbos
slowly down,
until he’s under the table again.

 

She screams at him,
but he refuses to move.

 

Soon, they’ll be watching a small, $20
b&w portable tv.

 

 

The only thing his junkie sister’s friends
won’t steal.
Again, he’ll sink down, and down,
until his mum is angry,
then go and roam the streets,

 

looking for space, imagination,
air.

 

“For fuck’s sake!” his mother barks.
“It’s pathetic!” she
snarls.

 

He holds his knees
under the table,
feeling comfort
in its dark,
promising himself, steely-eyed,
that when she’s older and dying
from the stuff,
he’ll show no sympathy.

 

“None,” he swears!
“She’s known for decades!”

 

 

It will end her, eat
bits away, turn them black,
kill them, one at a time.

 

And she’ll sook, and she’ll wail,
and demand sympathy,
and he’ll be there for her,
but not budge,

 

not shed a tear.

 

Even now,
she wakes near 2am,
each night,
to smoke a few more in bed.
Fills the house, his sheets,
with its stench,
to get her through to smoking a few more
before she rises.

 

Coughs so bad at night,
once, in her sleep,
she cracked two of
her ribs.

 

Uses an asthma pump
to clear the lungs enough
to fit a few more in.

 

“Never,” he swears, “never.”

 

 

Once, his mum’s male friends were there,
playing poker.
He assumed she’d fucked all of them,
at various stages,
the 70s.

 

 

Most came from comfort, like she did,
and rebelled.

 

 

Tommy could see it in their airs;
a life he’d never know,
or wanted.

 

 

The fallen,
bluffing through,
bluffing hard.

 

One of them wanted to snap
his fingers,
get Tommy to be that kid,
the one who idolises and serves.

 

Click…
Get me a drink.

 

Click, click,
Get me a smoke.

 

Click, click,
Come on, we’ll give you ten dollars.

 

“No,” Tommy said.

 

The bloke was incredulous!
Tommy was fucking
his vibe.

 

Tommy got him his smoke,
putting on such a show,
the bloke never asked for
a damn thing again.

 

Tommy was surprised how light it felt.
“It’s barely there,” he thought.

 

His mum’s friends,
his mum, musicians,
James Dean,
gave them such weight,
he assumed they were
like led.

 

Posers,
he thought.
Arseholes.

 

 

Ironically, being a sensory boy,
he’d grow to like
beautiful women who smoked,
for their sin.

 

Fortunately, his mother

 

isn’t beautiful,
her bum rises half way
up her back,
she’s covered in tar,
wears an ugly, abrupt way.

 

“Get up from under that table
right fucking now!” she rages.
“You little bastard,
never want to spend any time
with your mum!”

 

Sometimes, he comes up,
pokes through the descending cloud,
a reverse deep diver,
plunging into filth,
clogging his lungs.

 

Today, though, he stays in
his anger.

 

One day. Nothing.
Not a damn thing,
I swear…

 

 

 

 

More poetry from Tommy Mallet can be read Here.

 

 

More poetry from Almanac Poetry can be read HERE

 

 

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