Trieste
when Joyce left here his Dublin
was complete
occult bread on a platter
spasms
in the inlet
I let out a yawl in 23 accents
and my past lives left me
what gets in
the eyes:
a saucer of light
ink smudge on the Victorian walls
my pigeons oh my pigeons
we hover over lost points
else hoover up the antics
we live
in an experimental theatre
for nerve fibres
good morning, mr marzipan, good morning
please wheeze me out
into the dogstar
with your nightslippers
with your lovebones
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some dog yelps in the scooby doo cafe
and there is a smoking fiesta of housewives
a green and white sign advertises PAM
which rhymes with HAM
or SPAM
and this is where my Trieste
began
with proscuitto
and old aged cheese
and Pax
and Tata
and E
oh my electric beard
I've fingered yr lords
Oi
I'm still fingering yr lords
oi
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a newspaper soaked in blood
or oil
or glued
to a balloon
or fished
in vinegar
a hot water
bottle placed
under backs for a cold
Irish night
she got fired up
we got fed
he got listless chills
in the gloaming with
a thickening of birds and the slap
of the line
the buzz of motor-
bikes and the short espresso
the snaking of tails
the yoke yellow walls
spread
out the window
Tata with a cough and a sniffle
a rat a tat tat
on the footpath
Pax with old man’s head
and young woman’s eyes
the past is a hairy tale
waving
or tucking between
the legs
sometimes a lick of the snout
or a low grumble
from the belly
it is the end of the month
and this is not far
from Venice
not far from the thick eyes
of Joyce with his twelve lectures
on Shakespeare
Sartre’s Self Taught Man
has a nosebleed
alienation
imagines a man
with the tongue
of a caterpillar
we can’t rip it out
we can’t be
ourselves
E is a soft vowel
has taken me
from the winding stairs
from the babel
of another heaven
what was drunk
or popped
or sung twelve times
in the mirror
with missing teeth
this is not a landscape
a shaggy blond
beast of a heart
or the dark flame
of old Europe
there are pictures crushed
under boots
in the soggy fields
of Sunday morning
football
we have left nothing
poets painters musicians
Ireland is a twilight
I cannot cross
forlorn i was baited into a tango of taut phantoms
through the praxis of frightwork
coagulating
forlorn i was a temporary
gathering
the beast
of another
butter
the hymn of another
longing
coagulating
nothing stays
still
the voices the voices
of Ulster
or the fiddles
of North Carolina
the HUSH the HUSH
puppies
deep fried
corn
meal
in the churches of Rome
or Naples
with the misheard
angels
with the ballet
of my fingers
i’m getting back
the ghost
for god’s sake
listen
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Hamburger and beer near
the piazza
unita
street musicians playing
guitar and didgeridoo
green bicycles and jumpers. Bora wind. Sail-
boats in the Trieste harbor. Beer is
sharp to the tongue. Italian or German
women in black leather jackets.
They call this a mad city.
I’m in the old town. Venetian. A city
of small dogs. I awoke
with a wind chill in my head. Stinging
red eyes. I’ve lost
track of the days and hours. The bora
comes from all directions.
Heart speeds up without warning
while walking.
Nerves are quiet.
The hamburger has settled.
I’ve no stomach for a strict career.
Do you think there is something
to see you haven’t seen?
Do you think this is a new
mental space?
Howls in the streets. Bora bora bora.
Graffiti about the past marks
the Venitian walls. I’ve no
ear for history. There are lines
gathering on my forehead.
My sister has already or will
give birth to a boy named Joshua.
This didgeridoo goes well
with the bora.
O.K. conversation is a lubricant
O.K. I still have the inner accents
ashes are blowing on the plastic plate
the plastic plate is on the yellow tablecloth
the signs are in German and Italian
the hamburger has settled but the beer is kinder
scab scab
italian gals hug
in the bora
cupping hands
around fags
black emblems
only love
only love
here comes a man
with blinking trinkets
and stuffed monkeys
what do you expect
whom are you expecting
whose phone is chiming
whose formaggio are you eating
where is the carpaccio dunked in lemon
who hoovers the hairs
who ascends the stairs
what smiles in the narrow alleys
how doth thine eyes move amongst the ruins
ahhhh whose skirt is lifting
what are you skirting
sir do you see
me
sir
con con
something
something
can i please have
my bill
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momentarily disordered
into an unknown cycle
you’ve forgotten to take
down your flags
the world tosses
through the window
there are balconies
to throw away
the names we are given
there is no green shade
in this parade
into the drizzle
of a Trieste sunset
dark matter
holds the news
with a whistle
and the rattle
of an exhaust
pipe
passing between
primitive pianos
and the bora
blows blows
across the living
and the dead
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