Lines from Dublin.
On the way to the national gallery I put my hand on the big metal button as it ticked, beating like a heart, the rhythm of the city’s footsteps as the sound tells us it is time to cross the road. Under the railway bride a man, thick grey beard and browning t-shirt, inked, lie on the floor. As a train clatters over my head I remember the wavering candle in the pub last night, flickering wax pouring down its sides, solidifying and warming the dripping Dublin shower outside, igniting the city of the dead, resurrected in the condensation of my pint glass. The man on the ground, a soul now, is lost to a communion of his own, feeding bread to the pigeons as his avian disciples flap to their maker incarnate, clawing at his head, asking for one more crumb, closing time, last orders, just one more drink. Man is his own god, cheating death, haunted by creatures of the sky. Night is day, the alley is home, the dark rooms never close. Hierarchy has been distorted, the birds have come down from the sky, picking at men at the bottom, written in the creeds of the past as if they were at the top.
There were turquoise skies hovering over the cotton fields where dead men played living, already in the set path to the grave, the weight of honor and revenge hanging over them in a swarm of dusk-drinking flies. The harvesting machinery spins on and on without the need for human hands anymore, ghost motion where industry has been and gone. Now the factories and railway lines are weeping with vegetation, reclaimed but never unmaimed. They are left baring the scars of progress, driven over, a hit and run for the north. Children play in empty warehouses, teasing the snakes until they bite, the water tower is covered in vines, suffocating iron rusting in the merciless sun. Nature has crept back into the fallen world where action has left a lazy pleasure ground, burned Eden, a chemical paradise, beautiful but poisoned.
Blue is the colour of women on the road,
Blue is the colour of my old mans soul.
Nourishment for the journey
We re-potted the tomato plant today, my other woman and me.
We wondered why the green leaves had been slowly yellowing and fruitless.
We cracked the outside of their brittle brown pot and let the roots escape
Into a new and wider sea,
Half- cut, half- clear plastic of a use milk carton now drained and ready to begin
Again as part of a salad.
The mixed leaves of waste and gain.
It sits on the window still calm and unaware,
Being now what we can never be;
All that we can do is widen it’s ocean every few days with our second hand.
Sad then that it will bloom in June
When I am already wearing my wolf costume and yellow crown
Sailing back home to a place where my supper is still hot and my bedroom has ceased to be overgrown
By arching trees and falling leaves,
The forest having been cleared to make way
For the path I have been meditating over and over in these speeding months.
All that will be in my way is the blissful steam rising from the porridge.
So then, these tomatoes will be harvested.
Sweet and stable subsistence for the return journey,
Salted a little so they last as long as possible.
Over days, months, maybe even a year.
Nothing is certain but I have two watched and only one working.
Two stopped in different places and times and one running on for as long as it can last.
Just sold my soul to Apple. But it feels pretty good.