The Lost Boys

The air seems tae change around us n everythin is bleaker than before. Yi become desensitised tae the routine tragedy here. Such n such got plugged, this wan hung themselves n that wan died cos drugs or drink. It ceases tae shock n outrage n becomes run ae the fuckin mill, normal. Yi barely blink when yi hear. Aye? Fuck sake, man. That’s shite, n back tae it. It’s only ever really a matter ae time before the next. It took suhin terrible tae happen tae wan ae our ain before A’m disillusioned at last. A wake up fae that dream ae innocence, where the good times never end n we aw live forever.

There’s nae words fur a young cunt’s funeral really. Yi cannae describe a boy’s mother greetin doon the front pew wae his father wrapped around hur. Yi kin barely look at hur when she passes like a member ae the livin dead, nae make-up n messy hair. There is nae decorum in her sufferin, nae poise tae her pain. Yi wid think it’s hur who hus died, apart fae the ungodly wailin comin fae deep inside hur, like a grown wean greetin fur her ain maw, proof ae life and death. A see hur glancin at aw ae us, other young boys like hur son, momentarily resentful that it’s hur boy in the coffin n no wan ae us. Apart fae those few seconds, she is completely oblivious tae the fact there is anybody else in the room, except the wooden box containin hur son and hurself, in hur personal holocaust.

A find maself sittin starin at the coffin n no really listenin tae wit is goin on. There’s nae words ae redemption fur me the day n the minister’s prayers didnae offer any peace yit. There’s a symphony ae lassies sobbin n cunts sniffin. A’m just blank, nuhin n empty. This scene is forever tattooed on ma soul. A walk oot in ma suit wae the crowd, just an observer tae this strange ritual ae death. Cunts ir shakin hands n gittin intae limos but A’m just lightin a smoke n standin wae ma pals, a silent young team, dressed aw in black, ties n tights n tears.

It’s a slow day that dawned long, drew oot n set sadly. A find maself dreamin ma way oot the lingerin drunkenness at the wake. Aw the troops huv stayed on long after the other traditional mourners huv passed oot the door and intae the night. We’re aw gittin served the day, a rare moment ae wilful blindness by the bar staff. The tables ir full ae empty pint glasses, halfs and long wans. Everybody’s bleary eyed n red faced, some talkin loud, others barely whisperin under their own warm boozy breath. Everybody’s looser, more settled intae the ritual ae the day. Sometimes a lassie will greet n return the forced still ae the gatherin. Yi kin awready see life returnin behind the grief, cunts laughin at jokes and reprimandin themselves in their heed. It’s natural tae forget n move on. It happened almost immediately. Yi huv tae or yi git trapped in a cycle ae depression n pointless longin fur things tae be different. Yi cannae change nuhin. More than a fortnight hus passed n it’s long since sunk in that Wee Toffey is gone n isnae comin back.