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!
