stdClass Object
(
    [ID] => 14344
    [post_author] => 4
    [post_date] => 2012-02-03 19:39:12
    [post_date_gmt] => 2012-02-03 19:39:12
    [post_content] => THE BOY’S ROOM. The Boy is crouched on his knees, rocking. He rocks to the murmured, barely audible rhythm: ‘Make it stop. Make it stop.’ His mutterings gradually fade, and when he falls silent, he raises his head, eyes wild, motionless.
BOY
In the night. This is what I saw.
A man, he says ‘Where is She.’
Stone man, he look like flintstone. Yeah. Flintstone crying sometimes. He cry in-between ‘where is she’ and ‘oncejustonce.’
I sit, not asking. I don’t want to touch him.
I want it quiet, when there’s no one to ask and nobody watches.
So I lock my eyes up and I pretend I’m falling. But he makes me watch, watch him splinter.
Then he start talking ’bout flames that will burn him when someone presses button (BEAT) BANG! BANG!
And I see them flames, making him dead and ash.
I saw this when I dream.
It was a dream, in my head in my head in my HEAD.
The more I say it, the more it is Truth.
    [post_title] => Boy’s Monologue
    [post_excerpt] => 
    [post_status] => publish
    [comment_status] => closed
    [ping_status] => closed
    [post_password] => 
    [post_name] => boys-monologue
    [to_ping] => 
    [pinged] => 
    [post_modified] => 2015-11-26 13:07:15
    [post_modified_gmt] => 2015-11-26 13:07:15
    [post_content_filtered] => 
    [post_parent] => 0
    [guid] => http://poems.poetrysociety.org.uk/?post_type=poems&p=14344
    [menu_order] => 0
    [post_type] => poems
    [post_mime_type] => 
    [comment_count] => 0
    [filter] => raw
    [meta_data] => stdClass Object
        (
            [wpcf-published-in] => 
            [wpcf-date-published] => 2012
            [wpcf-summary-description] => Glyn Maxwell says: The ‘Boy’ in Freya Wilson’s monologue is traumatised by ‘A man…Stone man, he looks like flintstone. Yeah. Flintstone crying sometimes…’ This brief, trembling monologue is lit with wonderful flashes: ‘So I lock my eyes up and pretend I’m falling. But he makes me watch, watch him splinter.’ That ‘splinter’ seems hauled up from deep in the mind. And this is a worrying profundity I’d be glad to have gathered at so young an age: ‘The more I say it, the more it is Truth.’
            [wpcf-rights-information] => 
            [wpcf-poem-award] => Winner, Dramatic Monologue Challenge 2012
            [wpcf_pr_belongs] => 
        )

    [poet_data] => stdClass Object
        (
            [ID] => 13634
            [forename] => Freya 
            [surname] => Wilson
            [title] => Freya Wilson
            [slug] => freya-wilson
            [content] => Freya Wilson is a winner of the Young Poets Network 'Dramatic monologue' and 'Song writing' poetry challenges.
        )

)
stdClass Object
(
    [ID] => 13634
    [forename] => Freya 
    [surname] => Wilson
    [title] => Freya Wilson
    [slug] => freya-wilson
    [content] => Freya Wilson is a winner of the Young Poets Network 'Dramatic monologue' and 'Song writing' poetry challenges.
)

Boy’s Monologue

Freya Wilson

THE BOY’S ROOM. The Boy is crouched on his knees, rocking. He rocks to the murmured, barely audible rhythm: ‘Make it stop. Make it stop.’ His mutterings gradually fade, and when he falls silent, he raises his head, eyes wild, motionless.
BOY
In the night. This is what I saw.
A man, he says ‘Where is She.’
Stone man, he look like flintstone. Yeah. Flintstone crying sometimes. He cry in-between ‘where is she’ and ‘oncejustonce.’
I sit, not asking. I don’t want to touch him.
I want it quiet, when there’s no one to ask and nobody watches.
So I lock my eyes up and I pretend I’m falling. But he makes me watch, watch him splinter.
Then he start talking ’bout flames that will burn him when someone presses button (BEAT) BANG! BANG!
And I see them flames, making him dead and ash.
I saw this when I dream.
It was a dream, in my head in my head in my HEAD.
The more I say it, the more it is Truth.