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.

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