ALTAR WINE

I’m just like my mother, she sighed only she hides it better. I see colours in words, I’ll draw pictures for you. Come hear me speak of all my longings all my goodness all my cruelty, when was the last time I cried. Truth be told I can’t remember. There was once a man who loved me, he was older he left this scar and a book about an angel who made her way back home to God. I still think about him sometimes, running my finger up it’s spine. May he fall into a well, he left me old before my time. So I’m writing this here song out on a sick bag just for you, in the hope that in the process I might conjure up a few scenarios filled with old ghost who wander round dressed in your clothes come over here you fucked up Muse read me Sassoon out of your head on Altar Wine. She paused for air, she bit her lip, took a candle and struck the match. The smoke the flame the flow the Persian curtains start to dance. Fix your eyes upon this mirror, let me grab my spirit level. Swear you’ll get me safe forever, tell the truth and shame the devil. So I’m writing this here song out on a sick bag just for you, in the hope that in the process I might conjure up a few scenarios filled with old ghost who wander round dressed in your clothes come over here you fucked up Muse read me Sassoon out of your head on Altar Wine. 

 BADLANDS

I don't know what I've been told, throw a penny in the pocket of a darkened soul, a penny in the pocket for to pay that toll soon. The wind it blew right through my youth, take a notion for a potion so I wouldn't forget my roots, stomping the heels of my boots. Where are you gonna run to now keeping your good side out, where you gonna run to now yeah yeah, what you gonna do when your little plan, leads you astray in the badlands man. Meet you down by the banks of the Quay, I wouldn't do nothing that I wouldn't want done on me I'm upping the dose of blue ghosts you see I might be young but I feel much older, another leap of faith from my best friends shoulders, with every leap of faith I am getting bolder. Where you gonna run to now keeping your good side out where you gonna run to now yeah yeah, what are going to do where your little plan leads you astray in the Badlands man.

Where you gonna run to now the word around the campfires out standing on the edge of doubt swimming up stream get out you were dancing in an old dance hall you were fighting in a streetlight brawl you were seeking out some refuge dirtying your new shoes. What you gonna do when your little plan leads you astray in the badlands man what you gonna do when your little plan leaves you astray in the Badlands man.

BEACH TALK

Part of me died that sharp morning by the seaside when you handed me your last cigarette Remnants of night I'll wipe away like sleep from your eye, We go rolling down the avenue Yeah some people they laughed when you paused and I rushed to take the photograph think we can make it I said What good would that do You got me and I you. Checking my bets Pockets were emptied on your doorstep I could be on to a winner yet. In from the cold, we'd escape before your family came home let's save tomorrow for regrets. Yeah some people may laugh at my ideas but I know dear you can see through that, I'll spray our message on walls. What good would that do? You've got me and I you. Two hand wandering through wastelands pondering escape Big plans sitting at the band stand, sheltered from the rains I'll spray our message on walls. What good would that do at all?

 BIG BOYS MUST CRY

A madness began to stir in me. It came from the hearth of my gut, my neolithic mind became engulfed by half truths, oh I felt I was inflamed no I could not even breathe. 

Anxiety the parasite it robbed me, left me marooned on an island on a motorway roundabout I slept with the cold a soggy copy of Lolita by my head, plastic bags and indifference for a bed. Gaelic legends came carrying a canvas inspiration, gave birth to a sadness who in petrolled rags and porcelain shawls consumed the carnage on my western front. 

Big Boys Must Cry, all big boys must cry, Big boys must cry, tell your father tell your brother tell your grandad. The pendulums began to swing again. Their queuing up, tell your friends, tell your friends, roll up roll up get a good look. 

I became used to the idea of being well again

Speaking the language of my own soul 

With cupped hands I drank from the pool of reflection if happiness is growth then these must be growing pains, in the silent shade of thought I spoke your name again. I lit a fire with your old thesaurus. I got two buses to learn a verse and a chorus from a sick kid in his mother's kitchen who said the answers exist in plain sight. 

Earn you death by living an outrageous life.

Big Boys Must Cry, all big boys must cry Big boys must cry, tell your father tell your brother tell your grandad. The pendulums began to swing again. Their queuing up, tell your friends, tell your friends. 

 BLESS THE MAD ONES

Have you ever heard of anyone who took the soup?

I'm standing over a pot of mesmeric stew, my reflection reflecting well he claps with one hand. I return in kind with a constellation of smiles. I see a girl approaching, she wears a high vi's vest. She takes the Star of David and she holds it to her breast. I think you are mistaken, no I'm not the one you seek but I've been living in his body now for the best part of a week. Bless all the Mad ones I am a mad man mad to live mad to love mad to know mad to grow.

Madness is passion and passion bears fruit, eat all the apple and swallow the pips. Have you read the bylaws? Well I've kicked the goodbye laws off the back of a stranger's hand in the phoenix park after dark weeping ash falls from eyelids. Bathe in the flame, redeem your family's name. Well the reprimanded liar, takes the star down from the plough, throws his hands around the pint glass and drinks to the health of the fattened cow and then the hyperactive hard man sends these words out laced with venom, but we all laugh in his direction because he's wearing double denim.Bless all the Mad ones I am a mad man mad to live mad to love mad to know mad to grow.

Madness is passion and passion bears fruit, eat all the apple and swallow the pips. Take me to the place where all the great songs go to die so I may learn the righteous rattlings off by heart and call them mine. Listening to the whisperings of the ghosts in the machine I'll transcribe the Holy word from the fertile mind of the barren Queen. 

Sí do mhaimeo í, 'sí do mhaimeo í

'Sí do mhaimeo í, cailleach an airgid

'Sí do mhaimeo í, ó Bhail' Iorrais Mhóir í

'S chuir-feadh sí cóistí 'r bhóithre Chois Fharraige

'Measann tú, 'bpósfa', 'measann tú 'bpósfa'

'Measann tú, 'bpósfa', beirt ar an mbaile seo?

Tá 's a'm nach 'bpósfa', tá 's a'm nach 'bpósfa

Mar tá sé ró-óg 'gus dólfadh sé'n t-airgead

Sí do mhaimeo í, 'sí do mhaimeo í

'Sí do mhaimeo í, cailleach an airgid

'Sí do mhaimeo í, ó Bhail' Iorrais Mhóir í

'S chuir-feadh sí cóistí 'r bhóithre Chois Fharraige

Bless all the Mad ones 

I am a mad man mad to live mad to love mad to know mad to grow.

Madness is passion and passion bears fruit, eat all the apple and swallow the pips. 

 EASTERN NIGHTS

In my twisted arms you fell asleep as the cathedral bells rang out over the chimney lots of Harcourt street. I watch the dribs and drabs attending masses, those genuflecting heads polishing their reading glasses. I watched you sleeping as evening turned to night, but in the morning you left me traveling to Cambodia. So long little darling we’ll meet again on the road, I heard through a friend of a friend you were dancing in a multicultural burlesque show. Here’s to you my love. Those eastern nights they’ll take some beating, though my drunken professions of love they didn’t stop you from leaving. Those eastern nights they left me bitter and for love nor money you’d stay with me honey, for love nor money you’d stay. By the burned out barber shop I earned my keep pouring my guts out in story and song for the working classes until I was dead on my feet. Then you appeared out of nowhere with a reassuring smile, arm in arm down bachelors walk I swore that I’d put your past to one side. Ah well here’s to you my love. Those eastern nights they’ll take some beating, your collection of beautiful lies I ate them up and gave thanks for inspiring The spieling. Those eastern nights they left me bitter. For love nor money you’d stay with me honey, for love nor money you’d stay. 

Evidence of Living

A little boy sits on a doorstep Lifting his hands for to dampen the sound Of a bitch who is informing the neighbors of intimate acts with some waif she had found where the chimneys of steam emanate from the gutter in a dive bar where the hungry all stew It is here that the brilliant blasphemers are sitting and cursing us under the moon 

Ah with every name under the sun as the young ones were banging their drums Is there any evidence of living left in this town Would I find any evidence of living amongst you saddening crowd Is there any evidence of living within them, within us would I find any evidence of living left in this town A dishwasher had spoke of the New Testament so I picked up a German edition Though I could read nor decipher one single cold word I was joined by this strange apparition He’s a face like an old painters radio, disgrace was his family name. We payed cards I was happy just to be there, happily losing, happily lucid, waiting for morning, waiting to be saved Is there any evidence of living left in this town Would I find any evidence of living amongst you saddening crowd Is there any evidence of living within them, within us would I find any evidence of living left in this town We gathered our traveling circus one and for all we must hoist up the mast We must move now to set an example for every kid whose dreams died in fifth class In the name of that choice in a cracked anemic voice a tall girl she did silence the crowd She’d awakened the spirit we all washed ourselves in it, it shook me I tripped and I moaned. Being wounded she then brought me home, by her bedside while combing her hair. She undressed and then whispered in prayer. Is there any evidence of living left in this town Would I find any evidence of living amongst you saddening crowd Is there any evidence of living within them, within us would I find any evidence of living left in this town Shall we make it to the meadow Is heaven just another ghetto The ankle ripped by the stiletto We are the living in this town 

 full stop

In my twisted arms you fell asleep as the cathedral bells rang out over the chimney lots of Harcourt street. I watch the dribs and drabs attending masses, those genuflecting heads polishing their reading glasses. I watched you sleeping as evening turned to night, but in the morning you left me traveling to Cambodia. So long little darling we’ll meet again on the road, I heard through a friend of a friend you were dancing in a multicultural burlesque show. Here’s to you my love. Those eastern nights they’ll take some beating, though my drunken professions of love they didn’t stop you from leaving. Those eastern nights they left me bitter and for love nor money you’d stay with me honey, for love nor money you’d stay. By the burned out barber shop I earned my keep pouring my guts out in story and song for the working classes until I was dead on my feet. Then you appeared out of nowhere with a reassuring smile, arm in arm down bachelors walk I swore that I’d put your past to one side. Ah well here’s to you my love. Those eastern nights they’ll take some beating, your collection of beautiful lies I ate them up and gave thanks for inspiring The spieling. Those eastern nights they left me bitter. For love nor money you’d stay with me honey, for love nor money you’d stay. 

 good old days

Won’t you meet me down, down by Barrack Street. Where the sailors all come in to greet their families. I heard an auld one speak of the emergency, hiding coal under a baby in it’s pram. That’s where my mother's mother was raised on bread and butter mapping those streets in the creases of her palm. Fathers converged on the bars and prepared for the coming of the glimmer man. We won’t shed no tears for the good old days but for talks sake we can mourn them in a song. Truth be told, there what made up so I say god bless you and bless all who belong to thee. Won’t you meet me down by the pork factory houses where the bicycles are all traveling in unison. Where the latch is forever left on every door, keep your eyes peeled for the peelers in the dark. We had love not money and to those that stung me I would greet them all with the tipping of my cap. Let’s escape and go to a picture show in the picture house where the navies and the banshees roam. We won’t shed no tears for the good old days but for talks sake we can mourn them in a song. Truth be told, there what made up so I say god bless you and bless all who belong to thee. 

grace, a state

I am a collaboration between chaos and calm. You the amalgamation of what is sacred and depraved imagination is salvation, you partly mad I partly sane look here two blind commuters in some sacrificial game. 

Hush now don't you cry I'm taking care of you baby I'll adopt you into my world we'll spin through hoops it's all ballet. Hush now don't you cry I'm taking care of you baby, cross the divide there is no time please lift the veil there is no veil there is no veil. 

Ravaged by the brutal realism of reality the actor holds a glass trumpet which he then lifts to the open would he dips and slips to the sombre song of the public fool she rolls a spliff her cotton shirt stuck to her chest drenched in his sweat and blood. 

Hush now don't you cry I'm taking care of you baby, I'll remove you from that world of alcohol and propaganda. 

Hush now don't you cry I'm taking care of you baby, cross the divide ah I need more time please lift the veil there is no veil there is no veil there is no veil.

 ISOLATION TAPES

A strange bird came to my window last night powdering her nose she recommended it was time for me to go home Rain drops fell the size of pool balls I'm proud of all we are of all we've been and all we've yet to become still. A strange illogical light shines from within informing you of what is wrong and what is, it spiked you with awareness. Chewing on your jumper sleeve, maroon bruise face in a drafted doorway clinging onto something, holding on to something blatantly real. Leave it all behind The systematic thinking, the shaking and the sleepless nights Tell me you'll be fine Fourteen days in solitude will give you all the time that you need, To record your Isolation Tapes. The listeners reports they fire rounds a plenty the newsreader in a John Marlboro t-shirt looks bemused. Give yourself up to the current climate Do you want a glass of water? Do fancy a glass of water? I fancy a glass of Wine and a heavy dose. The frost bitten mongrel dawn gives way to another play I'm a streetsinger in a sweatbox rain falls the size of pool balls how can you wake up if you've not been sleeping and though the facts may be right the mood it is certainly wrong. Leave it all behind The systematic thinking, the shaking and the sleepless nights Tomorrow me you'll be fine. Twenty days in solitude will give you all the time that need to record your Isolation Tapes. Open up your door Settle this old score Let me in, give us a kiss.

james dean

It stabbed me in the chest like the pimp prudent's knife into poor wandering Beckett under a mother of pearl sky.

At the back of the wall I bawled cursing all in reel and rhyme whilst feeling out of sorts like a road sweeper dressed up to the nines. As the multicoloured kite, over shoulders taking flight and the local matador gives two fingers to the girl next door.

I had a dream that James Dean was alive and well today, looking for a quiet life, working for Irish Rail and in my father's clothes with a bloody nose I sang isn't it to sweat. By the slot machine there's James Dean out cold beneath my feet. Then the disciples of the street they all burst in through open doors and the creaking of the chairs and the running down the stairs. Pure ecstasy.

I had a dream that James Dean was alive and well today, looking for a quiet life, working for Irish Rail and in my father's clothes with a bloody nose I sang isn't it to sweat. By the slot machine there's James Dean out cold beneath my feet. Then the disciples of the street you all burst in through open doors and the creaking of the chairs and thhe running down the stairs, pure ecstasy.

I had a dream that James Dean was alive and well today.

Working for Irish Rail. 

The circus master smiles pointing his finger at the mime. I hear the distant call of a boy named Paul who was taken before his time and all the precious stones or the mongrels bone won't entice me you silly child.

You just run on home for your teas gone cold and your mother cursed you blind. Then the backdoor man feels wrong for switching off when signing on and the double jointed thief wins an award for pure Indecency.

LAWRENCE OF ARCADIA

I have just realized, my mind has been asleep, my past lives in a mausoleum.

I sell postcards of Spain outside the GPO to remind us of sunlight in winter.

It’s a thankless job but poetic tendencies just will not pay my rent. 

On these scorched streets I praise the gods I open my mouth and see what heaven sends 

I am calling all the bards in 

To illuminate me now

If I lean towards a trigger you say

You can’t kid a kidder no

I am Lawrence of Arcadia, who exactly are you anyway ?

Your looking at the last known bar stool prophet to retire early from the trade 

I’m going fishing for pearls of wisdom, I’ll be dancing through the pissing rain 

Your welcome to join me young annoyance, for I find you quite amusing all the same.

I am calling all the bards in 

To illuminate us now

If I lean towards a trigger, you say 

You can’t kid a kidder no 

I must consult Christy whose selling bin tags from his liberated bicycle of gold

If there is answers to be sought out, sure it’s him who knows all that’s been told 

Or the eat your dinner of my shoes barber outside his hungry door

Well I know I’m taking notes but tell me, who is it that’s keeping score ?

I am calling all the bards in

To illuminate us now

Should my words flow like a river, you say

You can’t kid a kidder no.

love in a snug

At the back end of town at the unholiest hour you may find love in a Snug. But if your not in the know, sure you wouldn’t even know it was there. 

With my face stung with drink I am longing for my rest. Tuesday morning is dawning I’m still stood in my Sunday best. Can you hear the clicking of bootheels on barstools, see the bald chalkless tips of the pool cues and the three bar heater that is gasping for air. I’m remembering the day that you found me comparing field notes with all the other bowsies but on the third day I’m going to wise up again. There’s a man whispering something profound but it falls on deaf ears and is drowned by the great slagging match that is reaching its final round. Husband turning to wife, little darling won’t you bless me with your palm but In a haze of blue language she shoots him down. The worn haggard suit, who thinks I am a mute says “Here kid, I never done no wrong” I exhale with a grimace, then I burst into song. While remembering the day that you found me comparing field notes with all the other bowsies but on the third day I’m gonna wise up again, I swear. Still yer man’s whispering something profound but it falls on deaf ears and is drowned by the great slagging match that is reaching it’s final round. At the back end of town at the unholiest hour, keep walking. Let’s go back to the day at the strawberry fair when your ghostly left hand picked a rosy red gem and we danced on the cobbles till the gritters were gone. Rain rain go away I’ll come down another day. At the back end of town at the unholiest hour you may find love in a Snug. 

OIL LAMP FOR THE GAS MAN

Wear the head scarf around your neck Roll the ends of your corduroy jeans Tell me all you'll soon forget when the sun comes screaming on the new born breeze Tease me with your intellect make fun of my harsh way with words Your look spills music upon the floor One look spills music upon the floor When you read the peroxide blonde You become this greater thing Oil lamp for the gas man sang to the hummings of a cheap fan They'll write songs about the likes of us you know. Wear the head scarf around your neck Roll the ends of your corduroy jeans Tell me things that you're not proud of I'll tell you things that I'm not proud of They'll write songs about the likes of us you know 

 ORIGIN OF THE WORLD

I’m singing this song in an act of rebellion. If I wear a white shirt would my appearance seem clean. I’ve emptied my skull of stale symbolism. From my fingers I scrubbed you like a nicotine stain. Craving some daylight and the sobering cold, I had heard of that deity from a yarn I’d been told by an elder of our tribe with the mind of a hunter. He had the spirit of a bird and the soul of an orphan, he released in me wisdom and happy endorphins. Wish me luck I’m in trouble again, I’m in love with a woman friend. So I let out a whistle and my hound came a yelping. Our Diana she bathed in that there pond beyond those ditches, I hear an act of contrition from Christopher Hitchens sent the opium smoker of to the Astral Plane. Then I moved through the forest while unraveling the line I had placed on my chisel and my well worn blade. From her tongue and her teeth I bare the marks of a slave. Wish me luck I’m in trouble again, I’m in love with a woman friend. Being chased by this beast many young fellas died. Poets digging their trenches have been buried alive by that clandestine creature with the kill in her eyes. Would Luna and Lupa both emerge from the den if they gazed even once into the origin of men. Would Luna and Lupa both be put to the sword if they dared even once touch the origin of the world. Wish me luck I’m in trouble again, I’m in love with a woman friend.

 NIGHTWATCHMAN

I'm the nightwatchman seeking out words and melody In need of a bed in need of a bed I'm the nightwatchman seeking out words and melody in need of a bed in need of some head Standing in the old clothes that my childhood wore When I was half as young as I am now The Machine police build monuments to slobbery But the Ewe tree laughs still into the wind. Some say yes and some say no till the sky turns black and blue I'm the nightwatchman seeking out words and melody in need of a bed in need of some head I am looking for the few who are waiting in the weeds, grounded in the now, sharpening the immortal plough. Standing in my old clothes by the scantily clad shore in wool hand stitched by an East wall mother No more sorrys now The sea is a healer I look back on it fondly as sunlight floods the chamber. You then see was it was I saw and the sky is an Emerald green.

 SNAKES & LADDERS

I met the King of Ethiopia atop a double decker bus this morning bright and early speaking with his hands he severed heads wearing the uniformed from of 

Na Buachaillí Dána a speech impediment he inherited from a childhood trauma and through the open window wide a little Moth came floating through this inebriated angel brought forth news of you I've made a wish into a tenth century well I've made a wish into a tenth century well that the hunger would be nourished have it's fill and be fed and we could step out liberated from a subterfuge of lead silly words come spilling from the spout dockleaf dockleaf take the sting of the nettle out she spits tobacco whisps from her upper class lower lip while me happy as Lazarus back from the dead lying on the bed picking the grey hairs from his curly head playing Snakes and Ladders on your body snakes and Ladders on your body its becoming a hobby God she's listening in the lobby as we play snakes and ladders on your blessed body. Placing my hand atop your breastplate the murmuration of your heart sends a shock through your silken skin the sizzling surf comes rolling in and the reason for me being here has been buried in your garden but I'm on the mitch from the tyranny of the self for one night only and in your medieval arms I think of nothing except Bethleham our immaculate conception and the ritualistic nature of it all as we play Snakes and ladders on your body snakes and ladders on your body its becoming a hobbie God she's listening in the lobby the fool forgiven of the folly in the simple act of saying sorry Snakes and ladders on your body snakes and ladders on your body it's becoming a hobby God she's listening in the lobby as we play snakes and ladders on your blessed body then in a feckless reckless act I succumbed and wept into your chest the moon her faced plastered in makeup watches a tear trickle down your nipple the past is but a faulty memory and there are worse things than dying a death kid listen here come the gregorian chanting listen here come the ringing of the bells if you see the King of Ethiopia tell him I was asking for him I hear he's lost his faith in public transport I hear he's found himself a new direction he's down below stood head to toe in ceremonial clothes on the Garvaghy road holding a sign which reads you can't fight the flow the man is hitchhiking towards heaven as we play Snakes and Ladders on your body snakes and Ladders on your body its becoming a hobby God she's listening in the lobby as we play snakes and ladders on your blessed body.

Make a wish for me 

At the tenth century well 

At the tenth century well 

At the tenth century well

SUBLIMINAL DUBLINIA

Noiseless nomad what does the road hold For this cradle capped croppie, hands covered in chalk. I’ve withstood many tremors in this constellation of plasticity. Water diviner point me towards the source. I am a stevedore hauling heavy cargo from the bowels of the ship I spat a thought cleansing spit wiping my lips on my sleeve the dope seeking dopamine walks the streets of Dublinia, subliminal Dublinia But there is warmth to be found in our hearts decent sons and daughters Jesus Christ is that you bedding down for the night, with your knees tucked to your chin Ah would you look at him, would you take one look at him the eye that draw you in get a look at her ah would you take just one look at her I’ve seen her face before, weren’t you at school with her. I spat a thought cleansing spit into the medicinal breeze that chews up all the leaves upon the streets of Dublinia I spat a thought cleansing spit into the visceral winds that rage and lift the words from the lazy page awakened 

minds take to the stage overthrowing the weak denying beds to those who sleep upon the semiconscious streets of subliminal Dublinia Give me a Dublinia where no one dies of the cold while others reap what they stole Isn’t that a start Dublinia I love you but you’re breaking my heart Revolution I call you from this horse drawn cart A revolution of the mind and of the soul and of the heart, isn’t that a start. Occupy the city with original Ideas Occupy the city with original Ideas Occupy the city with original Ideas I still love you, isn’t that a start? 

 THE HEALING

Short back and sides, 

Dinner plate eyes blown wide. A pigeon chested young man, a brother steps out of a tomb of toxicity and ruin, spent his money on cheap wine. Hold me I'm only a moment away, hold me I'm only a moment away.

The dogs on the street sing your praises the heat saps the sweat from your skin.

The war is nearly done man. Are you ready for the Healing.

Shaken by a surname, succinct. Waiting in the wings we watched. A face frozen like the hands of Cleary's clock stop, the war is nearly done are you ready for the Healing.

I Billy no mates standing at the school gates, I spy a poster for the French foreign legion. I'm going to join their ranks with my grandfather's blade with my beacon and my brush, new tattoo and a limp. Oh Julie Anne with those eyes of opals, the herd spat at you just for being open. A bastion of youth in a world that's ripped right open, the softly spoken truth brigade.

Hold me I'm only a moment away.

Hold me I'm only a moment away.

The man on the street, let's the air at his feet.

Somebody dies, a child gets born.

The war is nearly done man. Are you ready for the Healing?

TIN PAN ALLEY

Just across from my old street there’s a place called Tin Pan Alley, where I’ve wandered many nights first went many moons ago. As I walk amongst it’s ruins among it’s broken battered 

brickwork standing proud in pouring rain against any punch drunk sky. I do roam I do roam, welcoming the wee small hours my reflection in the windows, shadows cast on cobblestone. I do roam I do roam in your footsteps smoking in the cold, the air we breathe has benn tainted but clinging to the leaves those songs of old. Just across from my old street, there’s a place called Tin Pan Alley, it’s where many souls still dwell, remnants of the last great scene. I met a man there on the corner picking flowers by the roadside he said he was a household name during the last days of Rome. Then a voice came from the cover, brother I’ve one arm as long as the other won’t you tell me, should I repent all of my sins for I grow old I grow old, I wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled. Give me your hand and dance with me again before I go. Let us roam, let us roam welcoming the wee small hours our reflections in the window shadows cast on cobblestone. Let us roam let us roam in their footsteps smoking in the cold the air we breathe has been tainted but clinging to the leaves those songs of old. 

unholy ghosts

I was gifted a book by somebody who loved me about a man who got even with God. Sat in hyperactive London’s cold central station the city began sleeping like a dog. Then a tramp with one eye placed his hand on my thigh. I said hold it, pick a window you're leaving. Oh do forgive me he sighed, I was a fan in my prime. He must’ve thought I was somebody else. Here’s to the fathers of the lost sons and the unholy ghosts. It’s the ones who seem destined to get left behind interest me the most. I am the prodigal son, resting his head on the drum that was carried through the welcoming parade. And I’d give all I have, I would give all I have strip me bare, let me wash in the rains. On a street you’ve never heard of there’s a wooden piano on its last legs in a last chance saloon. It is manned by a drunkard who is dripping with poetry, sitting stupefied nailed to the stool. The man catches my gaze then produces this page from his waistcoat with a slip disk smile. Look boy, here is my last correspondence with Christ. I tried to read it, but my glasses were filthy. Here’s to the fathers of the lost sons and the unholy ghosts. It’s the ones who seem destined to get left behind interest me the most. I am the prodigal son, resting his head on the drum that was carried through the welcoming parade. And I’d give all I have, I would give all I have strip me bare, let me wash in the rains. Past the government housing, right off Donaldson road. Open collars and open hearts they swap anorexic lyrics with pyrotechnic rhymes as car lights knife their way through the dark. Then this feeling persists, we as people exist in a state of anticipation. You know it comes at a cost, or so the great unwashed have informed me and I tend to believe them these days.Here’s 

to the fathers of the lost sons and the unholy ghosts. It’s the ones who seem destined to get left behind interest me the most. I am the prodigal son, resting his head on the drum that was carried through the welcoming parade. And I’d give all I have, I would give all I have strip me bare, let me wash in the rains. I was gifted a book by somebody who loved me about a man who got even with God. 

 THE GROUNDSKEEPER

There’s a breeze and it’s blowing me down the road, rattling this bag of bone 

As I make my way through the storm, there’s a scrapyard prowler on my tail

I flagged me down a driver, I says take me the long way home for I am the passenger seat prophet you’ve been waiting for and I long to see the chicken wire again

I awoke in the morning with a green throat and a sore head, like a jellyfish sprawled on your clean bed

And not knowing what to do, I just fell in love with you as the dog outside the door craved my attention 

I think I’d like to meet The Groundskeeper but I don’t know I think I’ve lost him along the way. He’s been etherized he’s got William Burroughs’ eyes I think he’s had his day lounging in the sun with his weed gun, thorns and nettles on the run

The ragged brush he swept the pavement which he kept so clean, I’ve seen it in a dream

Then sitting down 

Wiping off the sweat from his furrowed brow, with a rag of Irish tweed.

Take me back 

I’ll abuse no more I’ve been falling by the wayside in real time 

I think I’d like to meet The Groundskeeper 

But I don’t know, I think he’s brewing tea

Come with me, let’s see

Behind the willow door manuscripts lie bare fill them with words that reassure like a language no one’s speaking anymore 

In the corner there’s a bookcase for his bed and a thin straw hat to rest upon his head, he says it brings him closer to the land so it wears it as a crown for the common man