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

 

bring

 out

your

fucking

dead!

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