The immigrants have gone,
“Fuck off the lot of ye! I’m sick of feeling for ye!”
The emigrants are here.
“Come on in, there’s loads of space, some fuckers are gone!”
Tit for tat
The market claps. I leave.
In the dead leaf forest a ghost shape
Lives eternal beneath the tree
Where fairies gathered, their voices the breeze.
Some days I stand there and stare. I leave.
Bricks of cash slotted into the ATM’s.
Security vans with paranoid mans.
Block banks for minutes, all synchronicity.
Each scaffold of words a Pollock monstrosity.
My country is dead, long live my country.
What is reborn is here. Wait while we kneel in the ditch
And cry our eyes out for an hour or three!
Jaysus, mo bhron, me hole, there sold, old Ireland
Gone, how she loved her little wet arsed children indeed.
Mores the cocks missing too. From altar and ballot.
Gone too. Mores the quiet herds who knew but said no.
“Shut the fuck up child.” They said. With voices dark as shadows of the fear
Beneath thousands of small beds, ripe with pee.
Mores the oak trees and bog worlds, gone three. I leave.
“Do you miss whacking the missus while slobbering over
Jesus at mass with your tongue hanging out like the intestines
Of a car battered badger whispering with flies?” A multitude of lies.
Or is there a history we can revisit and count up the children
Whored to a darkened Irish Eros mixed with a whiskey Thanatos,
Whisked together in a baking bowl and oven cooked for a thousand years
“It was the Brits! It’s the Brits!”They’d say. Creepy.
( The Brits never black and tanned my arse. Nor the Queen. )
Now now now, in the here and fucking now,
The cocks must actually make love to a woman for the release
Of seeds, – this is the game for fucking’s sake –
Now what did Jesus say about tossing your seed?
Ah yeah, on to the rocks, ya facking gee eyed eirinagees! I left.
I miss none of it. The good were there. The good still are. And always will be
Despite the best intentions of the nostalgia artists and forward thinking
Scientists and much loved careerists – you get me gist. For many
The answer to the questions was to be completely pissed.
Exit all cello bullet holes, quieten down the banging drums.
I pray sometimes like bees on flowers, pollinating.
It is yes, exasperating. Yet
I love our clouds
Which multiply now as the world heats up, they bubble,
They ferment, they torment the blue sky,
They darken like depression, erupt in manic sprees,
Piss all over Dublin zoo’s chimpanzees.
They are our own chapels equal to the Sistine.
I love our clouds
Wet as full grown women
Full of sacred heart and venerable gee
Who scream out of themselves with the force
Of Powerscourt waterfall after a shower or three.
I love less the poets who misty eyed opened only the one eye
And left the knife to the butcher, white aproned,
Bent above the naked host. Dig that motherfucker!
I love our effing clouds
And how they fornicate and multiply
And leave us all wet and steaming
And afraid of catching colds while we dry.
Ah yes, the rains say yes,
Falling upon our heads, these only used occasionally.
I add out of charity. Hardly at all.
Is mise le meas.
Mr Talk a Lot of Bolloxology.