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revision of the last saturday afternoon poem many moons ago

COFFEE HALL

sex drop
and damp dreams
in coffee hall
before a Mormon
baptism there
was silent chatter
and I was borderline
skit zo
while star wars
figures melted
on the light bulb

This is the scene, the seen, the redeveloped conditional, the hemoglobin of a healthy heartbeat.

Once upon, once the time was, the time

is a disappearing
point beneath
the pelvis
and I’m
painting
a portrait
with nothing
left
to lose.

In coffee hall I was pretend
smoking with twig in the spray
painted Council Park
and some girl named Candy
had the real one
and somewhere back
in Ireland my gills
turned to lungs
underneath the kitchen sink.

These scenetimes
are a flexible
rubber stuck in yr ear
the years slip and stumble
and we tread the treason
line, yr feeding me
lines and the reason
for time, time and the lie
is to crush and crumble
to keep the peeping
weightless
and these
scenes are a vector
of missed lips.

In north London
I’m engulfed
in scenes
& faithless to all countries, a bare
immigrant with scenetakes
on the nightspin.

I’m not over anything but I’m
still here.

Time is a chromo sin, a chromogoblin, one father
lives in Belfast and the other was a British soldier.

What is seen is
wrapped and mummified, blood-
binned, been had, been binned, ich
ike ek ek ek, we have no current
memory, a stash of specialist
rubbers, a special shadow slips
through the memorandums, an old
sweaty ash falling on all our heads, mechanically
flat our memories are orange-peeled
into a sweaty ashcan, an afternoon sky is
the source of our bone and skin.

An imprinted mammal the scene
snatches us into an anal anima
plura plura plura . . .

(more to come)

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