1983

  Orange blossom, Jasmine, Juniper buds, tattoos, afros, rockabilly, Billy the Cat, Billy Bud, Wild Bill Hicock, Cowboys and Indians under the rusty auld bridge, sleepers on the track and the house that back onto the disused railway line- coal bunker filled by cloth capped coalmen in the dead of winter- scarecrows up in vegetable patches- spring and blackberries blooming on bushes- churchs filled with auld ones, frankincense and myrrh- wooden confession boxes and holy water fonts gone green with age- wine in the sacristy and a good slug of the stuff to boot- get that warm feeling inside- to dream further dreams of far off places- ah, them beautiful smells.

2010

I see Dublin streets and a Honda 50 in the night- now I walk by the Central Park Reservoir and see Kip Kayno, the great 5,000 meter runner and I know Dustin Hoffman imagined the exact same thing in Marathon Man but I imagined the Central Park Reservoir while back in Dublin of a wet Thursday evening walking to an AA meeting in a small room at the back of Donnybrook Church in 1984. The Mail Boat doesn’t exist anymore- rough auld passage some nights to Hollyhead- how did I get from Hollyhead to Liverpool- I see Richman/ Poorman on the tele and build an elaborate fantasy of me as the put upon poet forced to flee- bollox- I could douse the flame and make a bonfire of this imagined life- a burning heap in a field on Guy Falk’s night- cartwheels on a wooden gate whirling mad- painted face- floppy hat- monks robes- cowboy pants- marauding with abandon- the Virginian on the range- trains that never come- the track all pulled up- that track was our World War Two battle ground or navel yard for men on the run- The Fugitive- men who couldn’t sit still- smell my Dads suit- feel warm on a winter eve all snug with jotter and pen believing I was a man- oh God- “That there’s some real big time Love.” 

Prospect Ave.

There's a wooden watertower  leaning over with age in the Bronx.
There's only one like it- lone decaying wooden watertower...
I Love YOU- Random apparition stay with me- I promise to nurse you for decades-
I do with book covers so why not you...
my precious remnant of bygone New York.

Troubled and moved as I was in1978 by the cover of Primo Levi's book: If this is a Man
I didn't read a word of it until 2005, but those ashen emaciated faces of men stayed with me for 27 years.

piss tank

Liquid pleasure coursing through my veins- on to my heart
the very core of my existence- every fiber pulsating from the pitter patter pleasure ghosts jumping
up and down on the trampoline of my Soul stirring visions of Heaven but
oh God- the slipping down- the fetid bung hole of depression- my moorings cut to drift aimlessly
into joyless space- foul air beating about my head- I'm surrounded by a seaweed cobweb dead poisoned sea green with bilge crashing in waves on my septic body-
trapped, smothered, not a sound out of me except faint echo's that might be heard at the bottom of a hollow barrel- down down the bung hole i go- skin ripped- bones smashed to pieces from the decent and this is only the beginning-
I keep falling through blades and briars i will not stop falling-
I'll burrow through the earths core and end up floating- empty....

nyc

Old world of fine duds and haircuts
Spray bottles made of brass
and cut throat razors to shape a neck
leather seats and the sepia tinge of nostalgia through the mirrors
Django Reinhardt on the tannoy
and my barber with his handlebar moustache-
I suggest he take a look at The Shooting Party with James Mason and he gives me a card for a clothes store on Orchard.
I'm too old for cool... and hip? I truly am a man out of his time, even Colin's mate said: 'Hey I liked your friends costume.' 'No, ya don't get it, that's the way he normally dresses.'

Woke Up

Woke up to the coal-men delivering coal in the dead of winter- saw their cloth caps from my window
and snow on the ground. The sandpit was white. Got up- went down for breakfast, then took the 61 bus to work. Met the bloke with the halloween mask face along the road but didn't run this time- just passed without a word.

NOw

The Silence of Now- Journeying into that Silence
and hear echo's bounce- the inner membranes of caverns shimmer
light prism off golden gems of yor-
venture on to the outer edge of the inland sea and paddle
a boat under wooden bridges burnt
covered now in moss and vines
and on to the giant piano mountain in the side of limestone rocks and
little bubble people play tunes from childhood but they can only play 'til
they burst as bubbles are apt to do