Lovers lovers
their empty skins
hang limp in opiate closets
pulsing between insinuations
of naphthalene and the barbitural scent
of forgetting, they swing embittered
and toxic, mothy costumes
of a play that lingers only
on faded posters
and skin.
On the wrong side of midnight
drunk as Brendan Behan
I scooped up a last high king
kneeling on Clontarf road
battled out
knees sanded to the bone
by the wet grit of ancient wars
singing
something
about not worrying about a thing
amongst Viking corpses
on the steps of the Bank of Ireland
where Wood Quay used to be
we kissed ourselves an island.
I clinched a burned out arsonist
hands shaking
climbing railings
in Stephens Green
feckin'
left an aftertaste of phosphorus
reeking red
like inhaling
the soul of a cracked match.
I chased a light eyed dragon
heart caving in to the count of nine
elliptic filigree of sins I kept
twitching inside a reliquary
of abalone dreams whilst
the rosary of Chopin's Polonaise
undid itself in silver beads.
I slashed my defeats in the wrists of actors
snorted stars on the mercurial mirrors
of their well rehearsed eyes
and DT'ed on night's poitìn
when I drank neat the distilled dew
glistening on the mouths of girls.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem