So first blood to the bland,
pulling at my niece like a poodle:
life-sized alabaster who this child
whispers to like she’s found her dog.
Mary – immovable, undead,
pig-ironed with presence
on a pistol-whipping mount
that would fly at me like a Dobermann.
Even still we can unpile
our unsaddled trinity through
the chapel’s grounds….subject to a sculpture
vaguely human, but god,
ejaculating a whitewash
that would obliterate our morning-afters,
and rubbers, our tarot packs and psychics,
acupunctured Buddhist bodies
on a bed, Bride-of-Sites
that penetrate us deeper
and the case of the priest
breaking my faith in two,
coming at us
with smiles for my niece,
who’s made him a tabernacle
with her cuticles.
All together the sculpture,
the priest, the little girl stand
armed, I think, chewing matches,
waiting for me to draw – my niece’s
little features catching fire
with God, screeching like an ordnance
from her alchemical pot,
calling for the right answers
from all that I have lost,
and covering me with her hands:
a clapboard chapel
of the Church – my church,
in which something boils so blackly,
trying for gold perhaps.
A big-boned woman in leggings and a teeny tank-top
straps of a massive bra
worn with moonboots wheeling her bleach-headed grandmother
in front of you in the queue for chips with fifteen orders.
A family engaged in a testicular effort
of eating, ordering stout-and-razza
along with their bituminous snack-boxes
under a fresco of peas,
convulsing an endless engine
of mastication and eructation
as the horses and calves are frogmarched in the back door.
A city back to its best, its flaas of beowers,
and langers: helium-high accents nibbling your ear
under the nose of Bishop Lucey,
where life’s meaning dithers
between Deepak Chopra, and a cheesy wotzit.
We drive souped-up two-seaters
in tracksuit bottoms
or get about on a robbed shopping trolley
from Dunnes, floating our way down the Blarney River
for a match
postponed due to rain.