That man burst a pimple. He turned away to look at the sky I thought. He was picking his face. Whilst the rest of us carried on in the accepted manner of gentlemen drinkers, he collected the warm yellow paste from a crater now visible, as a distraction from the worrying expression he wore, without regard for the general public, or any other who would deign to cast a glance upon his sickening visage. He’d excavated it well, the fucker, and now he was rolling the putrid gunk

Into a stone obelisk type thing, a figurine. One of the fellas was in the middle of giving us all a laugh with a likely tale, when who but skin-picker himself decided he’d disrupt the flow, the man would make you wonder. So in he comes, with some mumbled inanity, probably that he thought was quite witty and all, and left our boy, the teller, stupefied. A few seconds passed then we all went back to ignoring him. I think he had in a roundabout way inquired after the meaning of a certain word or whatever it was, though any plain and honest man could see that he was only trying to take the teller down a peg or two, nasty little thing. God, he was horrendous. Well it almost appeared that the man of the moment was vested in a way of looking at it, maybe he’d let it slide, petty as the slight was; but just as the general thinking lent credence to the notion, didn’t our boy put a twist in the tale? In fact, he spun the whole thing as a great allegory, in which the acne-ridden interloper was sent up in fine style. By God it was impressive. And there he sat, simpering away. Smirking. And that great puss-hole bleeding away, for the whole world to see and abhor.

There’s some chaps you only bother with when you’re at a loss. It’s nice when the craic runs easy between two fellas and neither having to exert themselves overly to pace it. The best soccer teams ease a nice run of play, less anxiety on the ball, because you can trust your pal. If the bollocks they subbed on playing at right back were to somehow find his way into your comfort zone, for want of a more appropriately athletic term, it’d disrupt the whole process altogether. You know he’s going to fluff his lines should you show him a pass, but his total lack of tactical awareness has left him the only option, and so you set him up with a lot of space and try your best to engender a show of encouragement.

Our dynamic seemed to consist in me talking at length, usually relating interesting stories or offering some sage thought or theory, with him either lamely taking his turn and mumbling lowly, I suppose ill at ease with the disparity in our verbal manners; or enjoying success taking pot shots, at admittedly key moments, whilst giving me the floor, allowing me to work myself into a blind furore, or to give too much of myself away. I could usually pull him up on time, though he got by me more than once…

---

Blindside

Enjoyers of freedom,
Write endlessly of love.
Use quaint tricks:
The churl’s cool
Blue drench.

Those whose freedom
Has been withheld
Are unable to access
The romantic dream

Their writings
Consist in cold dark
Abrupt explicit statements
The only language that serves
To address their reality
Effectively


Ballinderry

We did enjoy the beauty
Of the river, as boys.
On stolen floats
Braved treacherous rapids

The nobler of the fellows
Agreed to overlook
Any criminality
That may have served
To enable our adventure

They were great days,
When the scene’s majesty
Suffered no cold enquiry
Or subtle lambast

Two lads were felled
With hogweed stings,
They bore the stigma
For several days
Until the festering
Blistering wound settled
Into a curious seal

Every weekday evening after six, when his da’d been slapped out from the kitchen on the end of his mother’s slipper, he’d lift the wash basin, and stick it up his jumper, the eejit. Strolling past the gated green that working class kids couldn’t enter or exit, save for impaling the groin of either leg, he hit the front street and stood up on his wee soapbox.

‘Nonsense peddlers,’ he called, ‘come all, ye common, the Kip and banal. I’ve got a luverly little story for ya, something all to do with the corrupt wicked head principle, and his second in command, muck-common caretaker, poor Jack Massey. Come now, ye filth ridden peddlers of football stickers and shite. I’ll only hold you a minute, this here coming’s a very important broadcast that whichever way you like it will be seen by all the blacks in Somalia.’

The rickets-stricken children began to gather, hoping to get off a memorable jibe, or even to catch the daft bastard with a stone.

‘Listen. Old Jack Massey, who caught the ill regard of every woman misfortunate enough to suffer the scent of he’s breath as it only turned out was an ex-pug, and an ‘alfway respectable one at that, before the Tb took both his kidneys. He was a club fighter very much renowned for cavorting around, mincing, I should say, in a manner most shame-provokingly. He could well have been the laughing stock of his own division, only for having evened up the odds with a two fisted attack the likes of which any pale-faced European would be befuddled with. A stylist, in the truest sense, with artful grace and nimble mind to match; not to mention the hardest right hand felt since Roberto Duran floored a donkey for kicking in his stall. Not to drivel on but the jockey of course was Sugar Ray Leonard. Hands of Stone walloped the-’

A big pointy jagged fuckin’ bullet of a stone came flying past the sickener’s ear.

Ok, right I will fuck up then. Yeah so long story short, this haggard caretaker, or janitor, if you happen to be a yank, he came in to do substitute teacher one day. And guess what, he wasn’t the sharpest tool in the shed. Not only that, he had an embarrassment of a speech impediment, and if that wasn’t enough to scunder the astute rapscallions who presided over their weedy inferiors, he seemed to be making an effort, a pitiful effort to speak clearly, intelligently, with an imaginative grip on the English language. It was kind of endearing to tell you the truth, and not one of the boys had any real hate in their heart for the poor codger, it was just hard to manage it, the stress.

Anyway, in he comes, a pair of dungarees, like a newly-freed art school student, and, to everybody’s shock and surprise, begins to articulate the most lucid and inspiring ream of codswallop. The lads all clapped and broke for P.e.

While the lads are hiding themselves, huffing lynx, I’ll relate to you shortly the jist of this outlandish bastard’s gentle tirade. Right, so basically he was talking about a common condition which befalls just about every cunt with a heartbeat in a variety of like periods or lengths or whatever. Fuck sake. So yeah, basically, it’s when the victim, starts thinking everything is about them. Like his mate might start telling a story about the caretaker sleggin him like fuck and he’ll take in all the pain and believe in short that there’s a temporary yet fully realised conspiracy against him in which everybody else in the world participates and laughs at him basically. Yeah pile of shite, but this was his theory. One of the more gumptious students birthed the he-thought brilliant idea that it was very unlikely for a mad boxin’ cunt like Massey to be comin’ up with his own unique philosophies. Luckily, Massey spat directly in the urchin’s face before he’d the chance to elucidate his point.

Anyway it was lunch time now, and the three smart-alecs who found some refuge in making jokes went on out to see what this Massey was made of . Him with the long John’s on, shadow boxing, barking orders at Peevis Morton, the wimp in residence, who got walloped extra hard for taking occasion to chance a fruity one liner. Anyway these three likely lads, between them feeing pretty confident in having sussed it, started doin’ handstands, and doin’ aerobics on the crossbar of the rugby things. It was ridiculous like ballet or something and Massey was rippin’. Anyway, he boxes the head off wee Peevis for half an hour, it was a good exhibition to be fair, and the nerdlinger held his own in spots, especially when he landed that uppercut to the balls. Anyway, they were takin’ him away to hospital and next thing over walks the headmaster, Dr Pimplebutt. Says, ‘see you three, go and do cross country till I finish this crossword.’ So they went drinkin’ the stupid talent wastin’ cowardly handsome drunken whatever like. Anyway that was the end of first year.

Summer holidays the mayor closed the town, Jack Massey was fighting for the world title against Heron Wheat. Heron was like a wiley bigger version of Willie Pep’s granda, but he also had the kneecaps belonging to Rocky Macaroni’s butler. So he was a bit of an unknown quantity, but oul Massey didn’t give a fuck. There was a promotional push cause post war austerity meant that they needed more money for the NHS, so in rural areas the myth that Jack himself built each Massey Ferguson tractor was sold as truth, usually by wife-shaggin’ insurance salesmen types. It came off a trick and Churchill was laughing. He stuck a hundred pound note in a trust fund for Tony Blair and all was seeded. Come the day of the fight, who should turn up, but Roberto Duran. Says to Massey, ‘You have my respect, for teaching the peasant children, and working menial jobs like all us Latinos in the new world.’ Anyway, into the ring and Massey was pretty gentlemanly about it to be fair, he let that Pep wannabe go a few rounds then turns round and says, ‘50-0? Fuck you, ye pasta bastard.’ Knocked him clean out. Churchill was lovin’ it. Alfred Hitchcock filmin’ an all. So wouldn’t ye know, stinkin’ Massey gets the ride that night. Fair play.

They sold more tractors that year since the Industrial Revolution, motorway was packed. Massey was laughing, wanted for nothin’, but here, didn’t that fuckin’ wicked headmaster only still have him in a contract? Worked him till his dyin’ day, then he was off for the rest of his life. Happy enough.

————————————————————————————————————

With Bud Powell bashing away at the keys I observed the chunk of quietude with palsied rancour. I realise every now and then that to play jazz ye hafta not try. That is fuckin’ execute the manoeuvre, ye dafty, but don’t sit around dithering or setting your hand to it like some old master, just go limp and pretend you’re a ghost. That’s when you’ll do your best playin’, I mean, having not undergone the required training it’s kind of hit and hope. Let’s write a poem.

Jonah had lunch while the whale wept away
Wee fire in his belly now you’re not here to stay
Lance the oul crawfish with harpoon well sharpened
And ween out a few mermaids for after hours craic

Next thing along comes Noah
In his big fancy boat
Says come you on here we’re having a whale of a time
But Jonah was a weird cunt who didn’t like pandas
Or the fact there was no mermaids
Only Noah and his big knobbly stick

Next thing Moses split the whole lot of them
Firin’ out the tablets like fuck
Noah says where’s John Baptist the mad cunt
Tell him the salt is fuckin’ up our wine
And you’re the next best thing to Jesus

Noah didn’t like him cause he fucked off the whole lot
When they were playing pudgy gum bang bang
An ancient board game
Something like Jumanji
Only you were already there
John Baptiste flew up to the crows nest
And started bawlin’ his eyes out

Next thing Moby Dick harpooned a big carry out
Jonah says fuck this I’m jumping ship
And they all got busted
Mermaids and all

—————————————————————————————————–

Sewerage

Strands of doggerel
Tumble in
Before the committee
Then float out
To join the jetsam
The rinsing scum
That perpetuates
In that concrete bend
Defying the cleanse
Of nature’s live wash
Only there for to
Hint to children
What lies beyond
The factory wall

—————————————————————————————————————-

Fore

Fly agaric
The worms that ye hid
Were boggin’

Far from the
Ritualistic atavistic
God-dream that ye promised

Even after patient
Oven treatment and
Further de-worming

The bucket drowning them
Till I near boked
Persistence

Smoked
Your skin
To no avail

The preparation
Not widely practiced
And only a few of ye

Illuminating golf course
Groves, hiding
Yet more bugs

This timid liberty cap
Will more than suffice
The Druid’s intake

On the steps of Saint Kerouac I chased bop into a basement bar. Maintaining integrity coercing the various rhythms of performer and punter into some buzzing hum, loosening my neck to the suggested groove that went unnoticed by the average layman perhaps and gave my best.

Now, that might sound like a pile of stupid nonsense, but you put enough drink in a man with a pen in his hand, this is the sort of thing he’ll generally put down.

The moon saw me home through Roman Catholic ghettos that housed poverty line Romanians also now, the peaceful outcome of some open doorway drift.

The surety of my own step faltered as I approached the place in the east, a near subconscious gesture of deference, and respect.

The neighbourhood that had seen me halfway retained old phone boxes. Chances are the Romany gypsies were plugging the otherwise defunct lines with shrapnel, though some reserved the right to the beliebe that the ‘powers that be’ had left the depressing units as a reminder to all ghetto inhabitants that not much had changed, a reminder of their place, should their everyday existence fail to inspire dumb resignation in the first place.

I sat with an older fella who called me by name regularly, as if encouraging me to return the favour. The truth is I didn’t know his name. I’d always noticed him in my younger days, now the craic was running easy. I would’ve taken the chance to explain to him the peculiarities in circumstance that led to my inability to remember almost anybody’s name, saving relatives and such, but as it turned out, he wasn’t in the least bit interested in any variety of long-winded explanation. I adapted, and we had the craic then.

A typical exchange would go as follows:

-******, did you know there was a fifth Beatle?

-Aye I heard about that. It was…

-Naw, look but what I’m saying is, he ended up in a plaster cast, and-

-Oh, is that right?

-Him trying to drink away!

*goodnatured laughter*

The outcome of every wee chat led to him motioning somehow for me to face the stage, only to find one or more buxom ladies obstructing my view. With the upstanding citizen head on I endeavoured to enjoy the show without leering at any of the beauteous femmes in view.

At any rate, I managed to steal a generous glance at what I had to whilst maintaining a respectful mantle. Now it was just as I was turning to initiate a hopeful exchange with my pal when a barrage of Cubans entered my mind’s eye. Accepting their presence as an appreciator of their craft and lineage in the noble art, I was surprised when the gang parted to make way for a prime Dizzy Gillespie, setting the world to rights with his unfathomable familiarity with the outer reaches of musical possibility.

Now look, none of this would mean a thing if it weren’t for the entrance of a visibly discomfited boyfriend. It just so happened that I had been throwing a boxer’s nuance into my rhythmic head-sways, and the good fellow did not appear to be enamoured with this arrogant display.

At that very moment a blocked father in the front row began to rock back and forth in alarming fashion. The young man turned to look and I took the chance to adjust, pulling my chair back to give him room at the bar, dialling down any outward expressions of confidence that I might have been leaking.

This was an act, but the longer I played it the closer I got to letting go my show of confidence and revealing just a trace of having been a wee bollocks.

Later the bass player took a solo and hit some ‘edge of one’s abilities’ run of phrases. It was a relief, and pleasing to see him smile with the applause, speaking as a musician, here and always, unless I’m being taught not to, which earlier I was, and again later, but…

—————————————————————

The rumbling bastards of Cushendall, whose Turkish homes are fill’t. Every curmudgeon who skips through littered alleys. The many lottery winners who persist in makeshift homes. Blind swearers of dubious oaths still spinning. Glass half-smashed hut dwellers, poking sticks at the roadside carcass. The honourable numpties dismissing their representation in favour of courtroom farce. All of them boys, aye.

• I met a fella, so I did.
• – is that right, did ye meet a wee fella aye?
• – I did. And would you believe what this fella says across to me-
• – aw would well believe it, go on ahead and tell us then.
• -He says to me, now listen- he says, mister, would you believe it, but, half of the country, is succumbing- now wait for it- is succumbing- wait now- to consumption!

———————————————————-

*on the edge of profundity*-Music…

-*background chatter*-Nah he’s talking about his fancies…

*definitively*-Music…is shite.

————————————————-

The Hedge

A nettle sting; wasn’t just
As bad, as a beesting,
More commonplace, with a fabled cure
Rub that docken leaf all down ye

Something in the telling sold it

You learned in time to stand the nettle down
Pick your step and take care.
The docken growing always close
Encouraged trust in this accepted wisdom

Soapbar

The bar of soap 
Was a mainstay
Of our granny’s
Upstairs bathroom fixture

There was no sentiment
Attached to the waxen handful
It was simply a relic
Belonging to that era 

You were to scrub
The raw opening beneath
Freshly scissored fingernails
With a set of bristles
That would ruin
Your best school shoes 

Granny tapped ash
Into her crazy palm
And pulled her fake
Teeth out, triggering screams
Of laughter and delight
All the while telling stories
‘And says I, and says I,’

She could spin a good
Yarn, and still can,
Despite the horrors
That old age inflicts.
Granda he was busted 
Too much whiskey
According to granny 
Eileen

But in his day
As I was reliably
Informed, he was the
Best plasterer in the town
’A fine plasterer, Deck,’
Some further probing
Turned up accounts
Of his running cases of
Whiskey, to the fellas
That he worked along 
With, like a Christmas 
Boon, for all the lads.

He must’ve been a good
Craic in his day, but
Old age got to him early,
Come looking all the
Good times he’d overspent.
Full head of hair when he passed 
And most agreed, that there wasn’t 
A trace of grey to be seen.

Liquid soap nowadays
And it’s not so painful
When you’ve to scrub them
Raw bits beneath the nail
I just do it every now
And then, force of habit
I suppose, like the insertion
Of a cotton bud deep enough
To tickle your wee brain.
Good habits, bad habits
Routines and rituals,
Something to that.

Bought and Sold

The noble art
The squared circle
Promised immunity
From such connivance

But a good fighter
Let the favoured star away
Though the trained eye
Of every boxing man
And eager enthusiast
Saw exactly the transaction

To accept such things
In silent judgement
Must be the making
Of a man.

He was passed over
Many would never believe
Because they hadn’t yet
Trained their eyes or
Had their cynicism sharpened