Looking For Work In Dublin
The same girl sitting on different buses going by over and over I knew if I saw her one more time the rest of the world would completely liquefy and go with her. Wishing to avoid that whirlpool of a thing I knocked back the coffee, paid and left keeping my eyes firmly focused on the sidewalk made my way to Eccles Street. Sidewalk, crosswalk not daring to look up risking my life in the traffic like a blind man saving the world.
In the crumbling doorways tilted columns boarded windows planning permission posters all along the way safe to be looked at on the right side of the street I had no fear of buses as the decaying signs of Eccles street lead me down to the Georgian centre for saving the ruined life of city boys saving ruins among the ruins 90 days repairs a lifetime then out with you maybe meet again in some emergency of violence queued up amidst the hospital flu wishing you weren’t here.
there must be some as yet undiscovered carpet to sweep you under.
On my helter skelter straight way down to the bus station maybe O’Connell street. instead some nameless to me slope of a road not too far, is that the tower of Ulysses where once Telemachus watched black mass Mulligan sacred shaving interrupted by old Ireland who may have forgotten her own tongue but remembering to bring the milk had her tits compared to moo cows and other things I cannot now remember. everything old once was new like some profundity this rolls around in my brain tickling something in me I’m not sure of any more than why.
Cutting across I decide on O’Connell, I am afraid of the city only now when I am so indecisive about destinations as if there is some gang of violence waiting for that sign I send of not knowing where I’m going. Jackals of the lost man wandering seeking safety in the numbers of O’Connell, safe among the herds, oblivious to the old, ignorant of the new. penniless. No merchants sanctuary, a foreigner among the African languages and Friesian competitors, children named Rosalitta frown then smile, German hippies Burberry plaid guitars,
Somehow I don’t belong except to old bullet holes on the GPO, rusted tin enamelled placards above the discount shop on Talbot, soldier statues, new inns ward, eroded Grecian friezes on greasy brick work, stained glass window cracked holes. Noticing no one seems to notice like me wanting to some how take the time to repair myself, remind myself, enquire of the passer byes as to whom they attribute freedom to.
We are in a hurry to forget, do our best to not remember.
There has never been another day like today
There has never been another way
It has always been so
World without life
A long cat stretch beach of green benches
Cobble stone tides break debris from yesterday’s storm
Bleached pigeon bones
Desperate for sunglasses
Into the leather sleeves of my dreams
an earlier version of the was published by : The Legendary, Down Dirty Word, issue#16 -