Poor Old Dick


For my mate Dworas


Apparently Dick Collins had a stroke,
And he won’t be back to his old stamping ground again.
Rust will eat away his skips. Flysheets will be covered with
Mildew. Thousands of Polish hands will freeze


In their tracks. And who will compensate them
For long-term dreams? Who will benefit from
Picking up lost blocks of hash from the grass,
Cutting-edge mobile phones,


And all this after-concert stuff? I am not
A clairvoyant but I know human nature. Certainly
Clever Roman will turn the tide. He will start
The ball rolling and everything will be back to normal again,


As if an unearthly Robocop or
Some other demon for work should have a hand in it.
But what will his horses say? Won’t they
pine away? Will they have enough oats? Won't their sad eyes


Reflect wolves’ fangs?





If you have something to say, say it now:


Otherwise,
I wouldn’t have to bury you
In your Sunday best
And shiny shoes of patent leather.





Cionn an Toir (Torr Head)


An oil tanker, where are you sailing under cover of night?
What are you smuggling under your rusty hatches?
Songs of sirens, unicorns’ horns, or maybe
A silent sob of drowned men?





Board game


Eventually everything comes to an end
At the start, so stop talking rubbish
That god, that honour, that country.
Here the holocaust is needed
Or other mental cataclysm.