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.”