Nothing is over, not a thing, until time actually ceases. And as you stand below, waiting down in the street looking up, open-mouthed, wondering, speculating, nothing at all happens. nothing for 20, 30, 40 seconds, and when such silent moments exist in this flickering world there will be no further kisses, grunts, or gunshots. And so turn away, young Damian, turn aside from life and love for love is a heavy thing to carry with its sagging burden of lust, its well-fed writhing bodies, its financial speculations. Many unheard voices, crying out. mouth the hope, I hope I hope never to do/see this again and since the world is round those fat Chinese make it heavy living, as they do on the edge, sucking up noodleas, failing to emigrate, and so they drag us down, the bastards, causing climate change. I write letters to world leaders about this, about other serious things, and they respond, ever so brittle but quite polite, advising me to fuck off and go away. In Newcastle the girls are the real problem on weekends but not as bad as in Dublin. There you need strong arms & unfailing waves of charm to herd the howling hags homeward. Disco, disco, Saturday night! Palumbino, palumbina, and so legless are the lazy lanes of pleasure that I measure essence in grams, not ounces. |
Opinion pieces, travel articles, places and people; lots of poetry; commentary on current events and history and whatever else shows up on the radar. Articles have been numbered (since Sept. 2004). Go n-eiri an t-adh leat.