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from the secret of why we first took to our feet (rough)

cruel spring is on the way and my savage old identity is
in the making, three years of foreign lands, my action is mental,
don’t jump outta airplanes ‘cept in my mind
get natural, get funny, get off, get
your tail
in a hairspin, tis insanity hence sane

ached-up falliable nautical
hot-splotch rollerwheels &
squeels
& a dummy
tit to shut
the trap

got bucked &
got juiced
in the lands of the dead

freedom and forgetting
are twin cousins
on the back
of an elephant

certified face full of holes

fear less
than clear

can’t find my knees
on a flight to Belfast
to bury the dead
all kinds of physics at work
in the air

to trace the heat of fingers doesn’t always proceed
from body to body

there is a kind, they say, a kind
of wheel turning and a new song
on the wings

kids dropped his crayon on the airplane
my wife was x-rayed in crayons

toothcombing the mindbreaks
with a dead shoulder
thrown into the system

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Another Ireland: Part Two
Maurice Scully, The Basic Colours. Durham, UK: Pig Press, 1994.
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