The steady stench of death on breath as The Fall’s black broach begins to sink into my heart, it’s needle pissing black ink through each stony capillary

I wake to see the window pane dappled by silver beads of rain and beyond the trees are shedding their leaves, leaving smears of green and crimson against the marsh of grey sky and the rancid damp earth

Summer is leaving, her golden blouse trailing behind her, fading into the horizon’s of Turkey and Croatia, Letterkenny and Letterfrack bored mausoleums of dolour and listlessness. Perhaps I shall follow her to the iridescent lakes of Slovenia and sit naked in a pool of liquid ivory, praying in an moonglow

But instead I probably will not. I’ll stay and observe the shit crevices of Dublin and watch her cobblestones clog wth shit and heroin and dirt and catch soundbites of croaky, nasally voices, all in that amber lamplight and the scents of turf percolating around Temple Bar and the only thing to chase it away is a double Jameson and a vat of The Black Noise and wait to watch men move leather on the television

That’s all there is for now. The saturated and bloated culture of the unsexed and unglamorous. In years to come I shall expand and explore this sweet earth and I will bloody well write about it.

There’s a good man.

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