Barker - Barker, Plays Eight

First published in this collection 2014
by Oberon Books Ltd
521 Caledonian Road, London N7 9RH
Tel: +44 (0) 20 7607 3637 / Fax: +44 (0) 20 7607 3629
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www.oberonbooks.com This collection copyright Howard Barker 2014
The Bite of the Night, copyright Howard Barker 1988
Brutopia, copyright Howard Barker 1989
The Forty copyright Howard Barker 2011
Wonder and Worship in the Dying Ward copyright Howard Barker 2010 Howard Barker is hereby identified as author of these plays in accordance with section 77 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988. The author has asserted his moral rights. All rights whatsoever in these plays are strictly reserved and application for performance etc. should be made before commencement of rehearsal to Judy Daish Associates Ltd, 2 St Charles Place, London W10 6EG. No performance may be given unless a licence has been obtained, and no alterations may be made in the title or the text of the play without the authors prior written consent. You may not copy, store, distribute, transmit, reproduce or otherwise make available this publication (or any part of it) in any form, or binding or by any means (print, electronic, digital, optical, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of the publisher.

Any person who does any unauthorized act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages. A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library. PB ISBN: 978-1-78319-087-4
E ISBN: 978-1-783-19586-2 Cover photography by Eduardo Houth Printed, bound and converted
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MACLUBY	a soap boiler
CREUSA	a woman of Troy
SAVAGE	a scholar
BOY	his son
OLD MAN	his parent
HOGBIN	his pupil
HELEN	a defector
FLADDER	her husband, King of the Greeks
GUMMERY	a soldier
EPSOM	a soldier
SHADE	a soldier
A BOY	of Troy
GAY	a daughter of Helen
HOMER	a poet
BOY	son of Savage (adult)
ASAFIR	a Truce official
JOHN	their servant
CHARITY	daughter of Gay
SCHLIEMANN	an archaeologist
YORAKIM	a labourer
ASAFIR	a labourer
OFFICERS
YOUTHS
PUBLIC

MACLUBY: They brought a woman from the street And made her sit in the stalls By threats By bribes By flattery Obliging her to share a little of her life with actors But I dont understand art Sit still, they said But I dont want to see sad things Sit still, they said And she listened to everything Understanding some things But not others Laughing rarely, and always without knowing why Sometimes suffering in disgust Sometimes thoroughly amazed And in the light again said If thats art I think it is hard work It was beyond me So much of it beyond my actual life But something troubled her Something gnawed her peace And she came a second time, armoured with friends Sit still, she said And again, she listened to everything This time understanding different things This time untroubled that some things Could not be understood Laughing rarely but now without shame Sometimes suffering disgust Sometimes thoroughly amazed And in the light again said That is art, it is hard work And one friend said, too hard for me And the other said if you will I will come again Because I found it hard I felt honoured IT IS NOT TRUE THAT EVERYONE WANTS TO BE ENTERTAINED SOME WANT THE PAIN OF UNKNOWING Shh Shh Shh The ecstasy of not knowing for once The sheer suspension of not knowing Shh Shh Shh Three students in a smoke-filled room Three girls on holiday A pregnancy on a Saturday night I knew that I knew that I ALREADY KNEW THAT The marriage which was hardly The socialist who wasnt The American with the plague I knew that I knew that I ALREADY KNEW THAT We can go home now Oh, car seat kiss my arse We can go home now Oh, underground upholstery Caress my buttock I loved that play it was so true Take your skirt off I loved that play it was so Take your skirt off What are theatres for TAKE YOUR SKIRT OFF THIS HAS TO BE THE AGE FOR MORE MUSICALS Declares the manager The people are depressed THIS HAS TO BE THE AGE FOR MORE MUSICALS Declares the careerist Who thinks the tilted face is power Who believes humming is believing No The problems are different They are They really are I say this with all the circumspection A brute can muster I ask you Hatred apart Abuse apart Boredom in abeyance Politics in the cupboard Anger in the drawer Should we not I KNOW ITS IMPOSSIBLE BUT YOU STILL TRY Not reach down beyond the known for once Ill take you Ill hold your throat I will And vomit I will tolerate Over my shirt Over my wrists Your bile Your juices Ill be your guide And whistler in the dark Cougher over filthy words And all known sentiments recycled for this house CLARITY MEANING LOGIC AND CONSISTENCY None of it None I honour you too much To paste you with what you already know so Beyond the slums of England Tower blocks floating on ponds of urine Like the lighthouse on its bed of mercury Beyond the screams of women fouled Who have lost sight and sense of all desire And grinning classes of male satirists Beyond The witty deconstruction of the literary myth And individuals in the web of class NO IDEOLOGY ON THE CHEAP NO IDEOLOGY ON THE CHEAP You think a thing repeated three times is a truth You think to sing along is solidarity NO IDEOLOGY ON THE CHEAP Apologies Old spasms Apologies Old temper Apologies Apologies I charm you Like the Viennese professor in the desert Of America My smile is a crack of pain Like the exiled pianist in the tarts embrace My worn fingers reach for your place Efficiently ITS AN OBLIGATION! The ruins of a University.

CREAUSA: Lost in Troy. (Pause.) Listen, getting lost. (Pause.) That also is an infidelity (Pause.) I walked behind. Wife bearing the food. The flask. The diapers.

Wife under the bundle. The clock. The colander. The old mans vests. Through flaming alleys by clots of rapists whose glistening arses caught the light. The chess set and the fruit cake.

Wives under the soldiers. The flannel and the toothbrushes (Pause.) Turks in Smyrna Romans in Carthage Scots in Calais Swedes in Dresden Goths in Buda Japs in Nanking Russians in Brandenburg Unbelted and unbuttoned they thrust their arms into the well of skirt I did prefer I did To continuing this marriage in another place Prefer to get lost The gutters bubbling with semen notwithstanding The spontaneous stabblings of intoxicated looters notwithstanding I slipped down Traders Avenue and hid AND HE CAME BACK I will say this I will give credit where its He did He did come back A dozen paces boy in hand and dad on back His eyes shouted His mouth hung speechless as a ripped sheet I could have I wanted to That grey and never happy face CREU-SA! Once my name heaved out his gob and stuck to falling arches Once His last call Only once It drifted down with burning papers It sailed on draughts like embers of old Frocks And turned away Triangle of males The three degrees of man I vomited my shame into the shop On all smashed things I added pounds of self disgust And wiping on a dead mans curtain stood up frail But light Widowhood is grief but also chance And falls of cities both finishes and starts