Poetry

father

(First published in

MÖBIUS (USA) 2004)

a man i called father

~for a brief moment

  in my life~

smoked a clay pipe

and chewed ‘old rope’

which spittled

crackling on the

open fire

eyes grey as a

north sea storm

never settled on me

and he went to his death

without us ever touching

or meaning anything

to one another

he was just there

and he came and went

with no word of

greeting or goodbye

except for once

when his own son drowned

and i saw salt in the crevices

that seared his face

like the salt grey of his hair

and the eyes dimmed briefly

in that brushed leather face

as a single finger, coarse

and brown like a ropes end,

brushed away what might

have been a memory

or an unstoppable tear

a seedling

(First published in Kritya 2005)

in the middle of a rutted cart-track

that ploughs through asparagus fields

close to Cabin Hill

on the crest of a rolling mud-wave

an elm has seeded

with no more chance of thriving

or surviving

than a primrose on an ice flow...

on either side

bluebells celebrate the majesty

of lesser trees that scrape the sky

with bold-branched arms

signalling fortitude born

from amenable compliance

throwing stones at Salmon*

9th February 2004 Dublin

(First published in Dream Weaving 2004)

in Temple Bar squat

too many legal-highs

grogshops and tattooists

too many tarot readers

astrologers and tat-shops

and in this

strumpet of a city

with its multicoloured

Oscar Wilde posing

on a rock and

bronzed and

shit-strewn statues

of everyone from

Parnell to de Valera;

too many drunken brawlers

battered beggars and

door step sleepers

huddled by the

Custom’s House rails

but at Trinity at least

young girls in purple scarves

throw stones at Salmon’s

sullen squatting statue

as a passing don walks by

eyes fixed purposefully

on sun-chilled snowdrops and

golden crocuses huddled

at the elm bowl’s stem

*One time Provost of Trinity, Dr. George

  Salmon, who was avidly opposed to the

  admission of women into Trinity College.

at the psychiatrists

4th March 2004

(First published in The Journal 2004)

she is good at this

playing at being the doctor

and i am equally good at

playing at being the patient

she wheels out her practised smile

of reassurance like some

youthful Capablanca

seeing eight moves ahead

toying with an unwary victim

and i play out my finely honed

version of controlled madness

as she expects me to

i act differently with her

because some information

can’t be imparted with words

when she asks how i feel

i answer affirmatively

but shift position

raise eyebrows

smile wryly

while signalling like

a priest installing academic

stations of the cross

and adding ‘you know’

at the end of every answer

i’m not happy with my medication

so enquire earnestly about side-effects

until she asks me to expand

i adopt a clearly reasoned frown

of enquiry as to whether it might

be possible to live without it

we compromise

and a reduced intake is agreed

‘under secure supervision’

leaving, walking in the daffodil pathways

i had a flash back to childhood

and with it, for a brief second

an image of all time past present and future

occupying a single space in which our strange ritual

slotted perfectly and didn’t seem at all

as insane as it did when we acted it out

each, to our captive, private audience

and this is the poem

23rd April 2004

(First published in Kritya 2005)

she bends low

shielding her postcard

as we share breakfast bagels

in Tebay Lodge

with the pond by our window

and the shadows of clouds

racing across lakeland hills beyond

who is it for?  i ask

for you  she replies shyly

i have no one else,

what is it you write?

a poem  i reply wryly

it’s for you

i need no one else

right now

and i didn’t then

and this is the poem

be a hit man

24th August 2004

(First published in In Between

 Hangovers Issue 4 2007)

i wanna be a hit man

who don’t take no shit man

i want a Kalashnikov [all polished steel]

i wanna be a hunter

not just another punter

i wanna be a fucking big wheel

i wanna make a list

when am a little bit pissed

i want Disney right at the top

and the guy who dropped the bomb

and other nazi scum

and every single mother-fucking cop

there’ll be the dumb racist freako

who murdered Brother Biko

and every single member of the BNP

there’ll be all the slimy Tories

who tell fucking lying stories

about ‘spongers’ like you and like me

i’ll make them all go to the wall

and i’ll laugh as they fall

i wont have no conscience about it

if they beg me not to kill

i’ll say you never spared Joe Hill

or the others when their faces didn’t fit

i’ll say beg you little punk

then shoot every single skunk

watch them as their trousers get filled

i’ll remind them as they die

of the blood in the eye

of the Soledad Brothers whom they killed

and i wont do this for me

but for true fraternity

a gesture to the thousands whom they slayed

for the match girls and black slaves

whom they cast into the waves

and for ever single worker they betrayed

and if we all made up a list

when we’re all a little pissed

and act upon it when we sober in the sun

we might tell the Capitalist scum

that we aint no longer dumb

and they’d better listen or they’ll listen to a gun

Fireproof Dreams

(First published in The People’s

Poet Anthology ΙΙ 2003)

today i built a bonfire

in my back yard

started it with letters

then post-cards

added photos

then all your gifts

even the guitar

which sang as

it smouldered

…and piglet

your toothbrush

black dress

panties

bathroom robe

and even the

plastic

umbilical clamp

...then i took

your 3K 'fun run'

medal

the pyramid

the black and white

mug

the crystal

and the heart

and broke them

with a hammer

...deleted every email

and photo on

my PC

i should have felt better

afterwards

having warmed

my soul

on your ashes

but in the night

in uneasy sleep

you came to me

as always

in fireproof dreams

White House Blues

(First published in

Corrupted Memories 2004)

as his contribution

to the American

 (wet) Dream

Clinton gets

his dick-licked

in the white-house

‘Read my lips’

 all over again

 and he ‘did not

 have sexual

 relationships with

 that woman’...   honest injun

  Monica!

the auction

18th July 2004

(First published in The

Ticking Crocodile 2004)

without even asking God

i sold the stars for her

sweeping them clinking

and clanking into

a sagging moon sack

i auctioned the universe

every nova and gas-cloud

and laid the profits

at her feet

all the while

looking furtively

over my shoulder

hoping to fuck that

the angels who paid for

the goods with manna

and stardust were a bit

more honourable than she

but hell i felt so powerful then

despite having sold everything

for nothing

trick-cycling

10th May 2004

First published in erbacce ‘2’ 2005

female cycles\ are tricky things\ to handle\

i tried one once\ but my girlfriend\ said it didn’t suit\

and i had to agree because\ when it came to the part\

where my balls melted\ and dripped\

out of the end of my penis\ every month\

i decided to back track\

to one with a\

  proper\

  masculine\

  cross / bar