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