by Tom Davy

Simmonds is on the stage
for Whiplash, a film about drumming
and abuse. The academy is giving him a thing
which entails the usual sing song about
the wife and the crew
and sometimes the kids
and some trite account of charity
and, in the same breath, Hollywood fondlers
with some charming wit on the side.

In its place, a reminder:
call your mum and dad,
he said. Call your mum and dad
because the next time you dial,
who knows? Maybe Russia fucks us
or they fall down the stairs with a
thud
          thud
                    thud
followed by a nothing, taken by physics,
quietly. Maybe they just want to talk.

It’s a small sentiment
on a big show. I know now
that fifteen distant years ago
I’d seen him with my mum and dad
back when they looked younger –
he was Peter’s boss in Spiderman,
angry then and angrier now,
shouting at a drummer
until their hands bled.

I didn’t call my parents then.
Instead, I watched businessmen in the crowd
clap together and I thought to myself
          oh,
what a performance!
That behind their suits you’d sooner find
skeletons than skin, animated
and dead
and different.
From the height of my horse
I could hardly reach down for my phone.