In a dingy bar
A Spaniard plays guitar
Songs a scorpion would enjoy
Light here is bad
Windows barred
No thoughts, just noise
One more frosty, no choice.
In the loud crowd a mind among them, mind mine the mindingplace of my me, quiet as Clonmacnoise
Before brinebopping Viking boys quintupled their need for graves
Haze and driving rain neither dismay nor dissuade them
No quarter given or stitch worn in battle
Mushrooms make them mad as hatters
Hats off to Roy Hattersly. No, wait, the Immigrant Song
Drive our ships to new lands, land ahoy the land of Ireland
Where the mark of man’s hand was seen since Egpyt hadn’t sand
They too came to this land, had some hand in the solar plan of our megaliths, much of their brand
Is visible: benben, the primordial mound of land, Benbulben the fairy mountain
The grave of pyre-pied Scotia in Tralee in Kerry, an Egyptian Queen
Buried barbary macaques in royal tombs, North African style prayer beads
Bob Quinn’s Atlantean unleashed in me some sympathy toward this thesis
Many roads to follow, see where they lead.
Now, back to the vikings bound for the land of high kings
But not at that time, in fact it was this crime
And others like it, of the repetitive kind,
That made the Irish, so tribal, change their mind
About how divided they were, a king provided he rids the land of Danekind
At Clontarf they are routed, Ireland’s armies lined, finally grew a spine
When the dust settled and the battle was won, Brian Boru’s head was hung
In prayer when the surviving viking Brodir went to cut his hair, swung
Too hard and cut off his head
His bleeding arteries spurted, ruining the tent
Brodir was sent to hell with the rest of his men
Brian Boru went up to heaven
He was raised like the leavened host, he floated up and saw Monasterevin
Of the twice eleven bridges, the forded ditches of Ireland’s own venice
Crowds of wandering venison throng the base of the obelisk, the mason’s medicine
The pedestal steps are frequented by fallow deer and rent boys, Miss Fantasia sex toys
And a tongue piercing even if you’re in first grade, velvet blazer and plaid pants in Eager Beaver.
The hard work was done
But the Ard Rí was dead
In advance of mayhem, remove every hem
Say nothing to them, remove every head
Fat jewels pried from kingfinger Bibles, the crying Jew and the tribes of Cain
Blood upon the dew, two hundred slain at Clane, brains splattered
At sail a host untameable, the cruel ones of fable, sable souled and able to cross any ocean
Thick cable tied sails enable sleek vessels to ride crushing waves, finding ways
Slaves they gave to Loki and Thor, pale gifts sliding down stakes slake danger, give form
To impossible destiny, they ride further than Ireland out the Western
Continent. They sack Kilkenny, slaying many
Ten a penny the bitter letterpenner sayscoulddoitbetter, give me twenty
Good men, the best sword and horse, and I’ll bring Danescalps plenty
They take seals of office, a golden monstrance from the monastery chapel
An ancient tapestry depicting the tree of knowledge with a single golden apple
A chalice belonging to Saint Alice, she sends endurance when malice caprices
She makes us appreciate suffering, and strengthens the blind, monks fear the sea breezes
More than torture or disease, bells pealed once to heal at Easter feast peal now in warning, the snarling beasts
Marking their prows proud in hideousness.
That’s not –
Surely not, the bard of Ireland
He hates de sacred heart
He loves nighttown tarts and linguistic arts
He remarks often
The first time I see smiling slyly, pointing over at me, I let it pass
Like a good lawyer’s bar exam, but he goads me like a Trojan
Dublin’s doyen went foreign, slid into ports expecting adoring crowds
Nora kept her mouth shut as he proudly expounded how he came to have the crown
An assembly of unpackers await their disembarkment
He presumes they are celebrating his parchment
He raises his hands coming down the gangway, doesn’t put them down
Until he reaches the ground, he smiles as if the abounding applause for his renown
Was a thing without and not entirely in his ceann
Labourers bound on, pouring along gang planks
He gives them thanks, without them he could not memorialise his wanks
The moo cow came down the road where Betty Byrne lived
When I boxed James Joyce, the sound was dijz dijz dijz.
Alchemisland 
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