The two accordions
sound like mice squealing.
Oh so different from last night.
So it is, subdued
demeanour and silence strong.
The men talk to men,
I talk to no one.
My mother on the phone line
telling me her life.
Quiet smile and untalked nods.
The garden needs mowing,
the husband never does.
Quiet disharmony ruining
perfection on this sunny day.
She’s the one to go, I return to my
GMT. This life is a simple one,
if one allows it to be.
Make dirty a page of new.
My own design, my own to choose.
I know it’s a sin, it’s a wrong
to do. To bring the past upon a
page so new. There are no
conjunctions, there is no hope
of Christ redeem. There is none
of that when white becomes
The fault is mine, all here
agree clear. The burden
of resurrection is one
that Pontius could understand.
The sin of woman outmatches
sin of man.
Wounds well sutured still
tear in time.
I don’t care to believe this,
the way I am.
But to die, to be true – the
larks of jealous tone colour
my name and actions of all.
To try my triumph,
to fail my past.
To colour anything so darling is
sharpened with my own mouth’s axe.
Swell of the Liffey go,
and away my soul within its waves go.
Tobacco sour turns into tobacco nice
Wave my hair down days
later and I smell it still as I go.
Tobacco smell and North Beach
sand do not leave easily,
and nor would I grant them easy leave to go.
To Dublin City where I met my one,
To Dublin North to consecrate
the meeting of joined words.
and Nicotine sing.
Shared drinks unite
locked in with trad band and we.
His greyed hair.
Mine blue eyes.
Alone he sits,
with thoughts within.
Dublin man, Dublin true.
Chasing current politics from
de Valera and Collins,
fifty year on
since tainted treaty.
Centrist right governments, Dublin
man says. To my left he sits and
thinks of changed governments.
He’ll vote now Sinn Fein but Adams,
he says, has got to go.
Fifty years of Liffey swells,
of broken hearts and thrown rings in its
beds does it keep.
Fifty years of same Fáill and Gael.
But Dublin stays and so it goes,
with my troubled Dublin man and I
Do I prefer the ink-stained fingers
to a purple-blue heart?
Little will I care to share.
Little less will I care to know.
Behind covered eyes + quickened pulse
my act never brought me close to this
Will I never look up to see God’s command?
Forever will I sit head fitted against
songs of freedom
only made from a purple-blue bruised
My hand grows nicer by the night.
Alone, sit, to this detention of heart’s desire.
‘No not yet’ St Andrew whispers.
‘No not yet despite your heart’s desire.
Trust in me, will you fellows see.’
Listens the beggar beyond belief.
The light coloured wind
softens the blow against body
To the right is Chicago in springtime,
with Canadian salutations sending
their floral musk across the Michigan,
its scent changing and collecting
the pollution it meets along its way.
To the left
are the rises and falls
that separate Northern England
from Alba true.
In either direction
the trains howl and slowly
submit to the power of
man against machine.
Location is relative.
Christmas tree lights
and music nice –
what is earthly death
in another world,