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Onions

scene speak: Newport
Pagnell: green green green
and old village pubs, country
food: Yorkshire pudding and roast
and carrots: loved and lost
and loved it all

maybe not, although, I don’t think so, my lapsed
travel zone, still winking star-studded
challenge, hear all, heralded, just grab the tab &
pull off the damage, gravel &
chips, travel fresh, pushed-in chin

maybe not, although, travel
flesh, pushed-in chin

I want all these virtual kisses in person in the flesh on the flesh as soon as possible, as soon as the old village pub closes for the night and we rub chins
with all the sleeping shamans, built-up, maybe not, although, I don’t think so
looks like it might all come together

dull ache in the nose, the truth

of something is a smoking tunnel, taking for granted, of course, absence, the empty bottle
thrown into

a body of water

you realise this instant, this instance, is a key-
hole, a tunnel with a squint of light, yes taken
for granted, studied
under, the moment as we once
knew it renounces
our earthly labour
before being
impounded, pounded
out into
performance

this virgin train offers first class comfort
hot chocolate and biscuits
and acid reflux

yes: under fire, the moment
burns

















scene speak: north London

friendly bustles and ear popping tunnels
a friendly biscuit in a golden tin

wood, green, wood green, green wood, wood
midgets and giants and dusted pollen, and duties
wounds, wounds of a mistress, of a city, this
energy will eat or be
eaten, London is the world’s navel, the world’s
onion, the world’s housing
little maids
surrounded by hard light, London
wood green, north, on the line, out of
time the man on the cooling board
said be careful of the wire, said
Ireland, and Ireland
is in north London, in Halloway,
a stabbing here or there, I’m
always looking for you in second-hand
linguine shops, my back, watch
it, watch what comes back
in the clearing, in the dust
of the city, in the wood, in the
green, in the hard light, in
the north, again.

if I share my consciousness everyone
will rob me, if I share this dislocation
who will centre me, if I share this
post-immigrant
flim flam flum, this shared outnumbering
this shared hard light



these scene speaks are designed
in Georgian red brick with green and red doors.
East Belfast: Van Morrison: Georgie Best
my defect is a diamond.
the heart is a restraint, a dam to hold
back the blood, blood murals are forthcoming
Stevie is a Chihuahua and he stole
my toothbrush but I am inside
a post-bomb
haze thinking
sad scenes legless man
in a blue van
and sandbagged checkpoints: six-year-old boy
in the coal shed
with a lump on his head
six-year-old boy unlatching
the gate and walking three miles
to bus station telling driver take me
to my Granny’s
age 34 and back to where the
I began crossing consciousness: revel to reveal, sludge &
drudge & drift in the mind-craze word-mop, all things equal
this head doesn’t write well


Hail
to the Thief, shook
it and broke it, lost
it and clipped it
with minimal
style underselling
a vibratto that grates

happily this intonation
strikes the ear in passing

strikes reason
and gets more
radio airtime

I’ll stay on
foreever in
the storm-tossed
confrontation
that opens each scene

keenly Celtic & oral
with Scottish raindrops

tis himself
compromised
ready to breach

renounce the charm
the great novel
of familiarity

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Maurice Scully, The Basic Colours. Durham, UK: Pig Press, 1994.
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