Dub(h)lin(n), a Poem, (9)

Bring out your Dead

for pip kane, in Cavan

Bring out your dead

bring out your dead,

surly song of the city

ghost song of a dead people,

money can’t bring you back to life,

whores, bourgeois whores”,

bring out your dead

bring out your dead

there’s only a few of us left

with my grief this ocean i sail,

my song this sold city soiled

my children from Chernobyl,

they’re building orphanages in my mind,

my life’s become a charity case

“there’s no welfare no more”,

my friends are cardboard cut-outs

middleclass middleclass

like the kids of my crippling

crying spa spa spastic.


In the old days the whores sold relief

for a pound a go,

bad as it was back then

they didn’t buy cities or lives

or dreams,

now it’s all Hollywood

and no one’s on the dole,

we’re all a pound of flesh

and the whores wear suits.


O, my sad sad friend,

and still the grim reality,

this grim reaper at dawn

in my mind

bring out your dead







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