100 bowls of cereal

The frosted, putrid Satsuma

Decays in the yellow office

The bellicose White salespeople

Flog dead produce

To the tired Irish

And there’s only so much piling up of bodies you can do, only so much crying one Mother can do, before the chilblains grow teeth.  The fanged landlord can squeeze them like that Satsuma. Draining their piss and shit into a savings account on some grey main street. He pulls at his gonorrhea with soft fingers- the vicious, yellow honeyrot peeling away from his urethra like gum between fingers.

There’s only so many bowls of cereal you can eat. There’s only so many accumulators you can strike lucky on – so many cocaine-fueled Saturday nights in CityWest, so many ouija-boards, so many humble bus routes, so much organic hummus, so many flickering halogen street lamps, so many cold airport terminals, so much Camden Street, so much graffiti on the Dart line, so many leaves in the Phoenix park, so many yummy-mummies in Range Rovers. There’s only so much of it you can take before one bowl of cereal must become one hundred.

But you see the sweetness. You see the sweetness and humility in the people that come here in search of a better life. Zagreb, Serbia, Vilnius, Krakow, Lagos, Guadalajara, Caracas, Riga, Rio they’re all here. And it’s the inverse that strikes me. The inverse dynamic. TO BE THE HARBOUR. TO BE THE GLIMMERING PORT. Before it was the Irish in Boston. Or the Irish in London. Now we are creating new Southies. New Kilburns. The boroughs of Blanchardstown will be the bosom of some new vital and maudlin second generation pathology.  Welcome it. Welcome the new blood, for our blood is tired and deranged.



The slow vestibule

Fumigated , ignorant

Someone prays inside it now

Touched by the celestial

The November clouds and the wind

Designed by a sadist

Hungry for pain

Under a blanket of blue

Violence, stalks the airwaves. Deep in Dublin’s alleys and non possessive trenches. Why does it always scream like that? The hypodermic syringes. All shit and piss and blood and nothing down in the Italian quarter screaming to be heard yet a silent shout and nothing exists within the nothing which exists in the pain which exists and yet exists, somehow, through the void and gets all blue and reddish and blueish. It’s weird. It’s kinda weird the way I ink this and utter it all, utter all guttural and splutter it out. Maybe Tupac taught me. Not him. Biggie. Biggie was my boy. My champion. The Wu-Tang. Deep. Big-L. Queens. Brooklyn. The Bronx. Staten. These voices. That’s the one there, yes, that’s it.

Off key

The silence curves around the light

And there’s always these potent flashes

Nautical, yet fresh and salty

Crimsons, blues and greens

Deep in the swing of hangovers

How fresh the sea

How blotted I try to be

Unsuccessful, unfortunately

The soft giant

You’d think the sadness was over, out of you like some silver icy gust into a November air, or was that January, at twenty-three, your young man tears all over the icy Milltown lawns, all shimmering in ice on the hedgerows beside the Dodder. You’d think that was the last caldera of pain you’d fumble around, lonesomely combing the banks of the Dodder – staring through the dense thicket and waiting to see her silhouette in there, forlorn and scared – but you’d save those big brown eyes and take her in and bathe her, wash her feet and kiss her cheeks.

I thought that would be all for now but her I am at twenty-nine and that feeling of disconnection is still ever powerful, ever searching but yielding nothing except empty traintracks in my mind – no metaphor adequate, just the rain bashing against the Luas, treacling down like the tears of some huge sad and handsome giant in the clouds. But I’d ask him to cradle me, cradle me up there in the clouds you sweet giant, with your benign smile and enormous features. We will share a moment up there, you and I, as we gaze across the smooth plains of Dublin and her little terraced houses, her gardens of suburbia, the little rows of shops in Mount Merrion and Foxrock, and we’ll think about how many other people’s heart’s hurt out there and we’ll cry for them too, if only for a moment, before your soft hand places me back into that lachrymose tram to move along to the next space with a brave heart.