Sweets for my sweet

                   St. Columba’s:

                                    you remember

                        the wall of drunks familiar all

                                                        red and brightened

                                                      with the cider

                                               with everything outside

                           “What kind of life?” some woman said.

                

                                      alky forces

                                                 are drawing lines here

                                                      great bruised

                                                      bargain basement gods

                                   painting memos with sepia schmaltz

              

                               talking up their easy dissidence

                                                They’ve got those swollen rhetor lips.

                                           laughter slung out

                                                                        guttural

                                                      displaced since I can’t remember

                                        All of us are unoriginal.

     

                                 Any steady take is

                                                       all shook up

                                                    (somebody’s favourite song)

                                      The pictures they’ve still got

                                   are sliding

                    

                  This is a crew passing time, locally.

                     old woman

                                 her yellower hair

                                         loose skinned

                                   mouthful of most teeth missing

                                        She calls me over and offers me a sweet.

                                        the little boy hand dips in

 

                                               white papered mystery

                     

                                        touches the soft strings

                                        soft from something wrong

                                                                        gutted

                                                                a handful of cheap beef mince

                                                    gone green as I was

         

                           How those bastards laughed.

                                        I’m running up the street          

                                                  to catch the dry hand

                                     of where my dad is

               

                                     No tears come.

                                                  Just something like a question

                                               that must wait till whenever

                                                                   to be asked