Gung Ho Politics Does This

“There is no flag large enough to cover the shame of killing innocent people for a purpose which is unattainable.”

U.S. historian Howard Zinn 

(video uploaded from Alejandro Salas Munoz channel on Youtube)

International Incident in Connemara Lounge

 

Early twenties, long fair hair, attractive, blue-jeaned; Dutch maybe. Camping on the beach, I'd say. Sitting with her travelling companion at the next table. 

He’s at the bar, shimmying, the local Ronaldo. Thirty-five-ish, pint in fist, massaging with his left a roll of  belly overflowing between t-shirt and jeans. Outlining a game-plan; the trio around him, “ gwan horse !”                  

Then full-sail on the open sea,  he crosses the floor to where she’s sitting.

 On the dance square he’s doing a jive-waltz-dribble sort of thing, breaking it occasionally to lob the odd word down her ear-hole. And of course there’s twirl, lots of twirl. The locals know the story, little smiles on their faces.  

Back at the bar, anticipation-pricked, he’s warming the lads; his shimmies becoming daintier, more intricate like. 

Now he calls another pint......and a glass. The glass crosses the floor, the pint too.

Stool patted, down goes the arse and it’s chat, chat, chittidy, chattedy,chit chat; belly massaged and then another pint. 

 

“Glass ?” 

“No thanks.”  

Back at the bar, collecting his pint, horn-filled, brimming. Rono, ya beauty! 

She sees her chance to bolt.  

“Hey........where the fuck……. ?” 

“Fucking bitch. Outa my way."

 

Thunders across the lounge,  he goes roaring out the door; and the boys scattered, astounded feathers behind him.

Disturbance

The whole countryside’s afluster:

a tree is screaming,the meadows quivering,

boulders have clapped hands over their ears.

 

The word is that the stars have been burgled,

a stream’s stolen the silver,

and a cave, (whisper it), has swallowed the moon.

Films in your face

 

I am watching the film in your face:

your enjoyment crinkling

at the corners of your eyes,

teeth catching your lower lip,

blood draining from the pressure,

draining back as soon.

 

Furrows on your forehead,

I am smiling at your absorption,

want to stub them out with my thumb

but you catch me looking

so I turn back to the screen

till your face is mine again.

 

The words on my lips

remain unsaid. There will a time

when, not having words,

I will wish I had spoken; a time

when love being tested, I could say

I used to watch films in your face.

Neolithic Knowledge

Concentric lives of universe, earth and animal;

wheels turned in wheels.

Gods in their spirals,

their centrifugal powers pent  

to spring on interference:

a sun-burst of exploding circles.

The knowledge  in those shapes:

an unpossessable earth;

life being its gift to us,

we must flow over the ground like water.

Fifteen Irises from my Black Humour to You

Fifteen Irises from my Black Humour to You.

 

The mallards go off like a shot gun;

each a storm of wings

and black as a keyhole.

 

The pond, empty now,

is gripped in a glacial sulk.

 

Fifteen irises from my black humour to you,

their shadows only;

the pond will part with no more.