Alan Weadick

Afternoon in Blanes

Alan Weadick

Share Via:


…the thousand lotions, the sunscreens, the smell of democracy, of civilisation.

-Roberto Bolano


The stay-at-home daughters of Europe

bare their breasts to a harsher sun

than the one we imagined

before being breathed upon

in the unsung miracle of seed-time.

Not everyone on board understands this.

Johnny Inkhorn, for one,

can’t think of a wilder show

to bring home to his crib in The Valley,

saying uh-huh or oh-oh

to the ever- shorter shorts.

But the ferrymen are watching him,

wary Old World fathers to a man,

bleary-eyed with the timeless mirror

of the Mediterranean, conversant

with what floats below the surface

of decorum. Tolerant, till the hurt

hits home, of all- comers.

There but for the grace

of a nod and a wink go all

dumped in the drink like so much

that seemed so recently essential.


The corpse retains its capacity for surprises.

In particular the one about there being no death,

at least not yet. That and the shoals of small fish

working on his beach body now so close to the shore.

He never would have imagined such multiform

displays just a few feet from the nearest paddlers.

Or so painless a disintegration, if that’s what this is.

Who’d have thought the mind lived on

with its leaky house while in such terrible shape?

No one, that’s who. Who now wonders if he’ll have to wait

till the salt suckers grind him down

to get to meet some other nobodies.

But in the meantime must hang with the plastic and other

waste swirling around him, another feature of these parts,

like a scruffy planetarium’s grindhouse version

of the universe, and pass the time by reading all the labels

now that it’s too late to inherit the earth.

Alan Weadick

Alan Weadick has had poems most recently published in Cyphers,  the Culture Matters anthology "Cry of the poor", The Stony Thursday Book and upcoming in Blackbox Manifold and Dreich. He lives in Dublin.