Ghost hands don’t flinch and pinch the mustard coloured muscle but I can’t see them, only taste their ghostly opera caterwauls from hallways in doomed Raheny

Submarines balloon up the Liffey – her purple and him white as a dog

Anxiety grasps electric, electric, electric pings from the arabesque iron lamplight

They hurt like cunts with fangs and me the limp wintercock interned, interned in his bloody trousers! A Freudian sentence

Head bitten off, heart burns

A canal of green acid from base of neck to spine and down


Nothing changes in Dublin, we all look like greasy sheep with our turmeric beard

Still canal with dead barges while the ice raids the gutters and clears out the abysmal black piss of shattered alcoholics, their internal plumbing a stop-cock of Guinness and roaring brandy causing Seamus to lose a tooth in the meleé, all over some poxy horse from Kanturk

“The earth is soft and she should ride well yea but like ye know Guilfoyle and Mahon up behind him and Canldestick Jim, that’d be where my wise money’d be”

“Would it ye blind gee rag? We’ll see abourit. We’ll seeabouritallriyat”

And lo-and behold Paraic’s advise fails to materialize and Moose clatters his head off the wall and goes into a fit of rage so ferocious that he’s asked to leave, and in doing so he fell into the canal and froze to death only to bob up again down by Grand Canal where a couple of posho photographers where posho photographing Bolan’s Mill and the two Italian’s leapt with the fright and had to retreat for an immediate Amaretto into the Marker, the two of them quivering like mad cats on a frozen patio and then Sergio says he’s calling it a night and sure well for him




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