Alchemisland

I’ve got bags packed full of what you lack

You’re like a seagull pack after my crisp packet

Depending on how you act, how I swing the gavel

Might have to get mediaeval, rack it

Line of charlie I rack it, attack it

Barrack condoning torture after Iraq, like a Harkonnen’s tactics on Arakkis

Card scamming racket, at this con I am well practiced, it’s my praxis

Ram attack, I hear the rack of his ribs crack, bottom rungs snapped

I racket back whacking orpiment orb on sculpted lawns this morning

Born pure argent spoon for potato leek soup, but would’ve been a bore

My bullets score every time, homing kind, like the missile of a Quake vore

What were ID thinking with Quake Four, what a fall from Grace

I know Romero made DaiKatana, had egg on his face

But I heard he’s doing great down in Galway, smile on his face everyday

Making it a more positive space, I used to live there too did I say?

Moved there five years after 2008, tight crew but winding down, I came late

Last hurrah, we lived in Glendara, it was a fucking shithole alas

Rent cheap as chips, place was the pits, robberies, traveller kids audibly getting hit

Chinese at the road bottom called King Ding, eat there life taking in the hands ting

Back then I was not advancing, stretching out a little a lot hamstrings

I was drinking Spar coldstream gin and tonics with Woerner

Smoking lungs of chronic, gozzy colour of a sun by Turner

Listening to cthonic punk, living through ironic slump

Pretending I was fun, full of life and vim and get going do derring

Fists of Fun but I was Richard Herring, gearing up to go nowhere

Until decades pass and I’m suddenly chatting with assholes, Leicester Square

I’m sitting down in a dentist’s leather chair explaining why my dental’s bare

Medicare, grinding my teeth because battles to plan, I’m Commander

Oh yeah and years sucking down sweets at every opportunity

My dad used to eat a three finger pink snack wafer every evening

He loved a treat so I was born equal in treacly sweetness, appletree apple nearness

Moved to town, brother sending money down, to much familial frowning

Two years of clowning, drowning in alcohol, thinking I’m punk’s champion

Champing at the bit to see some action like I haven’t yet been to France

Say it all the time but look how I rhyme; they held me back in senior infants

I didn’t finish secondary school or go to college, I have a library of knowledge

Stored inside my noggin, whether you’re from Stillorgan or Sallynoggin

Don’t stepaside for anyone until your drumming’s done, Dundrum in the vroom vroom

Going where I damn well please, simple matter of self release, don’t be the police

Man in your own mind, tell Eddie Bernays you heard him out but no, you’re fine

Burn lease, hang landlord, mute when police make inquiries, Newt

Before she adopts Ripley maternally, long ago it seems an eternity, 2013

I met my wife the next year and her name is Aoife

It remains to be seen whether she is evil, or equal

In goodness and wisdom to Athena, adrenal

When I think back on those screamers

Dreamer days, demon ways, heaping ash trays

Tray full of green or grey powder, up for days

On the Corrib Princess at a private rave

Been awake 3 days, not much more of this can take

Probably saying that as I take another can

Man parades another joint my hand, of course I partake

With the fairies away ferried to furze, berry, heather, changeling

Take me away, bade deeper into the grass blades

Used play in a punk band, no names, long ago won’t tell you how long

But the lyrics, already expired upon delivery, referenced Brian Cowen

Apt surname, given no way he wasn’t freemason with that power.