Alchemisland

Argument, half hearted political rant, usual spiel

Anything to stopper the silence

Men go to rocks without sirens

Might be angels treat them decently any indigents with shoeless feet 

Cross the street to meet them, your charitable best foot forward, release

From your grasp more coin than he asks, cast them not into his lap

Press them into his hand that you grasp, press your recognition on his brow

Your lips remove a globe of smudged dirt, tell him how

You are his brother, adore his crown, clothe and feed him now

As if your own mother shambled hemless about the town

Rush with that zeal, where is your tender feeling when your eyes fall on the ceilingless

Their peeling lips and cheeks, the repeal of the licensing laws not something to repeat

Repentant but dependent, tale as old as time

Rhyme of Italian leather spats pattering against the pavement in Ballsbridge

Brendan Behan’s funeral in the church opposite the bus depot

Obelisk middle of the road like a stone totem pole.