Dublin is a small city
continuously under construction,
a poundshop Venice of the heart,
stuck in the still place
between what’s been
and what will be next.
Windy, windey, vulgar mother
singing songs from a well of sadness
her sons on the corner comparing erections
while simultaneously lighting their farts.
Shades of the lost adrift on dark water
As rakes and hoes, pros and cons
drink to the health of her glorious dead
or the myth of a better tomorrow.
Such denizens dally in every cityscape, only the farts smell differently. Inhale to identify your unique urban aroma. – mh