Posts Tagged ‘Ireland’

 

 

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!

So You Think You Want To Be An Addict

So you think you want to be an addict
you want to wrap up caution and throw it to the wind
dive right in and make yourself at home
let’s hope you can cope hell on your own
when you’re trapped between a rock and a dark place
just wait ’till you see your face
cold eyes set in a sunken gaze with no trace of emotive spark
it’ll always be dark when you enter a room
‘cos you’ll be the bringer of the doom and the gloom

So you think you want to be an addict
where one slip can send you plummeting on a downward ride
clutching wildly at any strand of false hope
well there’s never hope at the end of that rope
then finally, after all the shady deals,
the near misses, Judas kisses, false starts
the endless line of heavy hearts
left in a wake of calamitous notions,
you’ll agree again to take the potion that holds you
in catatonic suspension

and that, my friend, is very near the bitter end
the end of the line for a one-time player
a proverbial slayer bruised and broken by the poisoned spoon
that all to soon became your life’s blood
a symbiosis ’bout as cleansing as mud

so yeah if you think you want to be an addict
sleep tight and don’t forget to pack light;
there’s not much closet space in a cardboard box
and less still in the gutter.