LIGHTS OUT
Spleen
After
Baudelaire
1.
I’m like an aging prince who is out of touch with fun
in a land so wet the people subsist on suction.
No longer amused by two-faced regents in cahoots
with duping him, or his pack of hounds for beastly shoots.
Nothing cheers him up, neither falcons savaging doves,
or hopeless supplicants starving within his alcoves.
His favourite jester with idiot jingles can’t bring
a sickly smile to smooth the brow of a would-be king.
His chaise longue is bedecked like a tomb in fleur-de-lis.
And ladies-in-waiting, who’re always ready to please
a lordling, can’t tempt this miserable specimen
to even a twinkle with the raising of a hem.
The goldsmiths forging his money have not alchemised
a coin to enrich his spirits, for base corruption lies
in the mint since the blood baths by Roman ancestors.
Memories of gory glory days cannot bestir
this living corpse to nostalgia. All vital fluids gone,
what flows in the veins is the waters of oblivion.
2.
I’m the ageing Prince of an unkillable Queen.
I’m bored to tears with being a king-in-waiting.
My butler tells tales, and hunting days are threatened.
I’m good for nothing, and am not even hell bent.
The Goons on CD-ROMs are just quack-quacks.
Bright youngsters who buoyed my spirits with their nick-nacks
should get a job. No more Mister Nice Guy robbing
rich for poor. Since my wife died of excess shopping,
the fleurs du mal strewn on my bed do naught for me.
Nor ripe gals called Camilla with lingerie
at half mast. Nor the lure of a Lady Gaga.
Though the Royal Seal warrants me free Viagra.
In this rain-sodden isle my gold reserves are blood-
money. Still the sins of my father should be a good
laugh in a Roman bathhouse. But who anymore
cares a toss about glorying in gore of yore,
or hygiene? Pour yourself the absinthe of this green
and pleasant land, a double Pims. God Save the Queen.
The
light’s on in my rival’s house.
He must
be having a guest.
Could it
be that know-all Claus,
or
Chipie ‘Plouc’ Rull, the pest?
If it’s
a meal he makes it himself,
pis-vinaigrette, that he is.
Aperos
are from LidL’s shelf.
And the
wine he likes is fizz.
I’ve
been honoured, only once
for I
didn’t invite him back.
Why
should I cook or shop for a ponce?
And I
hate the idle chat.
But the
light makes me feel alone,
a
thoughtful place for older men.
Sick and
tired of being at home,
I want
to be up there with them.
Turning
your back on friends, it’s said,
is bad
for the heart, and of late
I read
of recluses found in bed,
bodies
in a decomposed state.
Grotto Swim
on the rockbed moss.
Like wind in the hair
the tendrils stand up.
As the wave withdraws
they shrink back to make
a carpet to walk
on and springboard in.
A Recycling of Lorine Niedecker
What horror to wake at night
and in the darkness see the light
time is white
mosquitoes bite
i've spent my life on nothing.
What
delight to steal out at night
and in the darkness ride my bike
time is flight
I'm out of sight
and I can hear my spokes sing.
Winterreise
and I’m going nowhere. Sleep
is a stranger I met once
upon a time. I was young
and curious. Now I’ve seen
it all, I cease to wonder
if I really belong here.
like a Chinese emperor
in his tomb. Still I
can hear
my own breath, and the
creaking
of a door I must lock,
but
I don’t want
to move. There’s a
certain peace in
staying put.
introspective.
You can’t go out.
It’s my childhood
back in Cork
all over again.
No. Grown up
you have your own
umbrella.
But it’s
still rain.
Palm
The
palm
of the left hand has star quality.
Though
it isn’t much good anymore to me,
having
lost the use of my little finger.
I can’t
cup a bird in it, let alone linger
over the
strings of a violin. But it’s fine
for high
fives, and the labyrinthine life-line,
when the
thumb is twiddled, with the years has grown
new
wrinkles, and I think I’m holding my own.
Bernard
Bernard
begs on the steps of the balustrade. He’s tiny and toothless,
and chirps
incomprehensible pleasantries. The mégot
on his lower lip is kept alight
by a miracle of breath control. He hasn’t aged in the seven
years I’ve been
giving him the smallest coin in my pocket.
Last
week I spotted him in a taxi ambulance. Though it was Friday he was
wearing
clean clothes. Sitting in the back he looked like a rich man or someone
who had
won the lottery. I thought to myself we won’t be seeing
Bernard again.
I was
wrong.