Sunday, May 29, 2005

179. seven past mental

in a lonely ditch with a nagging bitch
domestication overcame me

my sad eyed lady of the lowlands

half-cut, leaning leftwards in the breeze,
bouncing off trees, losing
the run of herself
oh! oh! entirely

so I went to the pissart convention
straight down the old red lane
with stout Cortez, an eagle of a man,
or was that Pissaro
gazing goggle-eyed,
on the Hill of Howth?

We were
half-cut, leaning in the breeze,
leaning and linking serenely,
floating over the flushed and happy faces
of the lusty multitude, singing,
loudly, lovingly,
their anthem at the races:

there were four and twenty virgins
at the Ball of Inverness
and when the ball was over
there were four and twenty less

and in another corner of a foreign field
young Jimmy the Bollix and Gaston Grey
among the lazy langourous lilacs,
gesticulating, interpolating,
Sinn Fein
and fifty feckin reasons
to kill your mam
and love your dad

the only peace I ever had
was seven past mental
alone in the flat in Islandbridge
but with two suns in a blazing sky
closing in, approaching,
there was this ... apprehension
(a temporary illusion)
of permanent impermanence

and I thought (that was then)
Mr Death was not worth dying for:
because like any sensible man
I was all for a bit of silence
but, Jayz, Mr D went a step too far

in the other direction. Beyond the gallows,
you may discern
the psychological centre
of the healthy happy human mind:
pre- Communist
pre- American

as when in days of innocent youth
we laughed with girls and told the truth

but let me
put some interpretation
upon your scalp
and rub it in with kneading fingers
as the needing lingers
the clocks

Shantih ... Shantih ... with a dull sound at the stroke of eleven.