SMOKING REMAINS



A loud noise at lunchtime wakes me and I wonder - what the fuck? WW11
UXB apparently someone stood on it by mistake is the news. Oh well time
I was up anyway so why worry about some poor slob even now meeting with
his maker of whom the less said etc may he rest in peace notwithstanding
nobody knows his name or number he just moved in the man not the maker
with his wife and dog.

I perform that dour deliberation so redolent of the gentleman and shine
my shoes of course a trick I picked up at school. Slipper to the kitchen
initiating proceedings there knocking over a mug of coffee I was about
to sip blast now I'll have to make another look at the bloody time I'm
nothing like ready to go can't seem to shrug off this hunch of sobriety
surely bending my back. I notice I'm not shaking today, nearly, vibrations
must have tuned in to my wavelength and smoothed it out so the scattered
man didn't die in vain. Only passing strange he should choose that very
moment to tread on a slug that exploded? Idly speculating, loading a sling
bag with books I borrowed in the porous hope of enlightenment leaving no
tome unlearned but what I want to know is - what has literature the fuck
to do with life? And how does one avoid it? Scrambled eggs is the answer
as is so often the case.

Where was I? Oh yes on my way out like a light fantastic tripping down
the road to the library not the pub where the world goes alas ah listen
I will hie me home sober and OD on Casablanca tonight. Sobriety becomes
me I do say broken liver aside on the whole not to be too peculiar about
it without prejudice yes I do say sobriety suits me rather well hell a
summer without gin who needs it - is that right? No not me not I no beer
either mind neither wine. Still. There's always walking in the rain. And cocaine.

Passing the place where the bang occurred I resist the urge to applaud.
Who knows your man might be there in spirit his flesh is flecking the
wall spirals of blue ascending his wife howling the dog cowering large
fluorescent men scooping up his smoking remains and I think yeah ain't
it the truth as I hurry by holding my nose there's always some fucker
worse off than yourself.

 

THE MURDER FLAT

They were a quiet couple, the Palmers. If you saw them in the car park or in the lobby, they’d nod and hurry along, Mrs Palmer meek behind her husband, shopping clinking. He was average. Everything about him was average. She was ordinary. Nothing about her attracted a second glance. Although, sometimes, as she padded meekly behind Mr Palmer, you might notice a tightening of the lips, a narrowing of the eyes, and if you let yourself look down you might see her neat fists curled rigid, unpainted nails digging into palms. 

One evening, waiting for the lift with them, pleasantries exchanged, when it came I ushered them in ahead of me, my floor below theirs. As I moved forward to exit I happened to look in the mirror on one side of the lift and I saw Mrs Palmer staring with intense hatred, no other word to describe it, at her husband's back.

I couldn't speak. I waved and gave them a nod and a smile, neighbourly. 'Bloody hell,' I thought, 'That was scary.' I'd never seen a mark on Mrs Palmer, nothing to suggest physical abuse, but now I began to think about the way they must be in private. I was up at three that night down a rabbithole when I heard a heavy crunching sound. Couple of hours later the ambulance left. He had died in a sweaty, stinking stupor on top of her, we learned. Took her an hour to free herself, she said, and to call the emergency services. They had found him with his face buried in her pillow. The jury took ten minutes to send her home.

ON A CLEAR DAY


You gotta love it, the story of Jesus. Born in a manger to Mary the
virgin and Joseph the cuckold. Apparently she didn't, like, do it? You
know? Sure, sure. believe it. Anyway, what happens, the family move

from Bethlehem to Nazareth, for the work, right? There's a big demand for
carpenters. Those Nazarenes, always decorating. Now it isn't long before
Jesus gets bored with building work and starts up a gang, the disciples,
with their own uniforms and everything. Thing is, he's really well connected: 

tribe of Judah, family of David, second king of Israel. You know what 

I'm saying? And there was his cousin, sure. Everyone knew John the
Baptist. John the Publicist, if you ask me. What a bigmouth. Anyway, Jesus
gets baptized, by guess who, and before you know it he's made two trips
through Galilee with his pals from Jerusalem, and hey, most of the time
they're, like, at it. You know? Eating and drinking, loaves, fishes, wine.
You name it. Thing about Jesus, your man knew how to party and he didn't
care who complained. The fly in the ointment was the religious right, of
course. When isn't it? And then there was Herod, or Governor Antipas as
he was formerly known, and boy, did Jesus get up his nose.

A week before Passover, Jesus decides to split and he goes back to
Jerusalem, and to his surprise the people greet him as the Messiah! Really,
the Messiah, yet. Can you believe it? Now Jesus isn't exactly backward
at coming forward as we know, and when one of his gang, Judas the cheap-
skate, squeals on him, well, he puts his hand up, and the Sanhedrin, this
bunch of superior bastards with nothing better to do, have him arrested,
give him a quick trial - and condemn him to death! The Roman procurator,
Pontius Pilate, fell for the Sanhedrin's line about Jesus being a threat
to his total authority. Yeah right, like a hippy with attitude is going
to fuck up Imperial Rome all on his own. Well, the sad part is that by
now Jesus is beginning to believe his own publicity, and to cut a long
story short, he puts on quite a show and to cries of Here Come The Cross
the whole town turns out for the crucifixion, a kind of open air enter-
tainment popular at the time. So now Jesus is hanging up there with the
rest of the cast feeling pretty sorry for himself, despite the groupies
licking their lips down below, and he notices this soldier eyeing him
up. You know? And he says to him, 'Oy, pal, see these nails?' Nods to
his hands, 'You couldn't like pull them out for me could you?' Well, the
soldier has taken a shine to him and he agrees, reaches up with a claw
hammer he happens to have on him, and yanks the nails. 'Oh the relief,'
Jesus says, rubbing his hands together, as he begins to sway forwards.
'Oh my god,' he shouts, 'Quick, quick, fer chrisakes, ya dumb fuckin
eejit, THE FEET THE FEET.' Well, I don't need to tell you what happens
next. The whole thing is blown up out of all proportion a few hundred
years later and in the present day the story of Jesus is big business.
Ironically, run from Rome by a few shysters, and all over the world,
variations on the theme are set up and called Churches, pushing the
concept of a godhead, and the belief that Jesus died for the sins of
the people. Oh yeah. He did, didn't he? He died because he was a ham
and he couldn't resist the applause, is what he did. His fans were so
pissed off when he kicked it they made up all kinds of shit about how
he came back from the dead and ascended into heaven where his old man,
God Almighty, welcomed him back with big hugs and kisses, yada, yada,
yada. Back in the real world a billion or more suckers Love Him Love
Him, like you do with a divinity, and they love their neighbours as
themselves too, sure, except when their neighbours have other ideas,
when they hate the fuck out of them, and start shooting. And so it
goes, the story of Jesus. You gotta love it.

LAYERS

'Your man's back,' I say to Seamus,
'the onion.'
'Wit the name?'
'Himself,' I say,
'and if you'll put down that spanner,
'I think it's time to eat,
'I'm buying.'
There's a walk we take,
along by the alleys
with creeper over the walls.
He says nothing,
Seamus, but it's like prayer,
he doesn't do that either,
only listens.
He lets a hand stray,
touching the vine,
long dead bloodless sinews,
begun in a glasshouse
and now forever never escaping.
We reach the street,
see Ollie Fanteen, black as black
in his white shirt.
'Ollie,' Seamus hollers, 'he's buying.'
The Italian is where we go,
I'm buying but I'm not paying
if you follow,
there's nothing like spaghetti
when you're buying.
A carafe of house red appears,
and I pour myself a glass
of water, iced, for the company.
Minestrone comes,
and Seamus complains, 'Potaters,'
he says, 'it needs big fockin potaters.'
He won't be told.
But he sucks up spaghetti alright,
him and Ollie both,
double my plateful, I'm buying,
and on a diet.
We're the last table
this lunchtime;
it's the timing, sure,
there's reason we do what we do.
You don't have to be an onion
to make strange soup
but it helps.
Ice cream and coffee is ordered,
and waiting, Seamus says,
thoughtful, 'Did one a youse say grace?'
I reach into my pocket,
'Shaddap,' I say, 'and listen to this.'

RACE MEETING


It's all over. The crowds have dispersed, leaving behind the empties,
the rubbish piled high, stinking toilets, one abandoned shoe and three
lines turned to ghostly slime on my favourite mirror. Worth a lick. I
see on the TV it's a sorry mess at Cheltenham too, only they clean up
after the Queen Mother, old bitch didn't choke to death, again. Shame.
I said to the second Clancy, this morning, 'Missed your chances there,
Pat'. He's not speaking, it's his voice, but he agreed.

You don't know until it happens to you. I don't drink, for my health,
so it's always me the spare hand at the wheel, short order cook, hard
currency negotiator and general dogsbody for the Limerick crowd, with
Seamus and his Uncle Ralph Don't Ask, in reserve. Mrs. Seamus allowed
the pair of them to go this year, on the Wednesday, the day my fockin
horse kissed the ground came up to meet him. It couldn't lose, if you
listen to some people. TV Woo catered the evening at my place - she's
a diamond, I tell you, but she threw the box of tricks in at the door
and fucked off sharpish. She's from London, too. We're a colony. They
never missed us till we were gone. Patel was on the phone asking when
he can expect a visit. I ask Herself to look him up if I'm tied to my
desk. She says he pines. It was a fucking fatwa last time, when Aaron
pulled his second cousin twice removed and seduced her on the bedroom
carpet, she wouldn't undress. I think Seamus has a plan.

I made them all breakfast this morning, the works. My reputation. My
phone warbled. It was the other Clancy, would I be sure to scorch his
bacon. I wouldn't mind but he was on the toilet. So, it's all over. A
celebration. Your man was a Welshman, but any excuse. Still, as I pan
the camera, making sure I get the sinister green Transit in the scene,
I can't help wondering, about the shipment.

POND LIFE

It was a miserable damp morning. The sun backlit sodden trees. Birds
driipped in the branches. A cat eyed the street through a window at
No. 52. At the top of the house Sheehy lay face down across his bed.
Beneath the window a dog with his legs in the air, sharp protrusion
pinkly pointing. Kids shouting woke him. He rolled over, staggered
over to the bed, nudged, until he heard a moan. Pointing, he came
closer. Sheehy opened one eye, 'Ah, Jesus, Charles,' he said,
closed the eye, moaned again, 'No,' he moaned, 'No.'

He got up, collected towels, glanced into the next room on his way to
the shower; there was a body on the sofa. When he came out of the shower
it was in his bedroom stealing his clothes. Sheehy said, 'Leave me a
clean shirt.' He went in to the sitting room, over to his desk, set just
so in the corner. Paper proliferated, plain, printed and palimpsest. A
humming PC lit up at his approach exposing a neat text, and he gazed at
it mystified. He reached up for a book, found a page, 'Yossarian,' he
whispered, 'Yossarian'. He sat down in despair. Just as he was about to
hold his head in his hands he felt a sinister presence behind him. A
sharp pain made him wince as he realized he hadn't fed the cat. Her
claws embedded in his shoulders, he went to the kitchen. Charles was 

already there, licking.

'Coffee's on,' Sheehy called.

The body appeared wearing his last ironed shirt. Sheehy carried in a
tray. Framed monochrome photographs of famous people from behind filled
the wall above the desk and in a glass fronted cabinet on one shelf a
collection of balls, miniature scoreboard fixed at 106 and 41, and several 

gouged out blocks of chalk. On another shelf a jam of model motors
led by a green Defender mounting a white gloved policeman lying down 

on the job. The bottom shelf was stacked with magazines.

Charles came in, farted. Sheehy slung him out on his arse. 'Animal,' he
said. His brother sat drinking coffee, watching the dog in the garden.

'Shouldn't you give her a bell?'

'I don't think so, she never wants to speak to me, ever again.'

A phone rang.

'Hello? Yes, it's me, do you want ... ?' He listened. Hung up.
'She never wants to speak to you ever again,' he said, 'she's coming
over to see me and have a word.'

'She loves me'. 

Sheehy went to the bedroom and dressed, returned, took Charles' 

lead off its hook and stepped out through the open French doors. 

A blue car drew up as they reached the gate. Sheehy gave the driver 

a kiss, 'You all right?'

'All right?' She said, 'All right? How can I be all right when that ...
that ... '

'Bastard?'

'Selfish bastard doesn't ... doesn't ... I'm going to kill him ... this
is the last time.'

'Well, don't break any mugs, and mind my furniture.'

They left her to it and walked down the Sunday street. Not raining now,
the sun almost shone. Drying puddles reflected the tall houses and in
every third driveway a booted man washed a car. Kids biked about in
packs, dogs exchanged smells, cats glared and round the corner came Mrs
Smallbone, back from mass, 'Risen from your sinful bed, Michael?' 'Good 

morning yourself, Mrs.' She rolled away, led by her Pomeranian, Bruce.

The park was crowded with suburbanites pursuing leisure. There was a
round pond in the middle of a neat coppice. Fashionable fisher folk sat
on stools deploying expensive rods, thewhile ducks plopped into the
water from their conveniently located island hideaway. A man in green
bent to instruct a beautiful goldie. Charles sloped over and tried it on  

with her, but no luck. The sun had burned off straggling clouds as they 

walked over to the tennis courts, where Larkin the piebald gazehound

tried pissing on the wire fence.

"Every time", Sheehy thought. 'How are you Stan?'

'I never knew a dog so stupid.'

The dogs fell down together to rest while the two men stood in silence
as players ran around smiting mightily at balls. A blonde girl wearing
immaculate kit was thoroughly ogled. Her partner became more and more
annoyed as she trounced him. He had no style, no class, and no chance
after this and he knew it. She chased down a ball, crashed into the
fence in front of the onlookers, spraying sweat. She licked her lips
at them.

'Christ,' Stan said, 'Oh Christ, her legs ... they're ... they're ... '

'Glinting in the sunlight, a fine sheen of moisture accentuating the
muscles within, taut and hot to the touch?'

'Oh fuck me yes,' Stan said. Larkin took another slash at the fence. 

 
'Later Stan,' Sheehy said.

When they got back to the house, the blue car was gone. There was 

a note on his desk. He spiked it, turned on the T.V. Brazil. Red Bull 

looked invincible, Vettel fastest, Alonso up his arse. Charles flopped, 

the cat reclined. Outside, daylight ebbed away, streetlamps yellowed 

and Mrs Smallbone ambled homeward, Bruce in her arms.

A BATRACHIAN AFFAIR.

It was a warm Autumn morning
As I wandered so carefree
Wading among the lilies 
On the pond when suddenly
I heard a voice, well, more
Of a croak really, and there
Cross legged on a flower, was
A tiny but beautiful princess,
'You got any linctus, pal?'
She said clutching her neck.
'That's some neck you got,'
I said, 'Talking to me when
'I'm wandering carefree here.'
'Listen,' she said, throwing
A glance over her shoulder,
'I'm really a gorgeous green
'Frog under all this tinsel.'
'Go on,' I said, 'Prove it.'
'Ya hafta kiss me first bigboy,'
She said, winking one huge eye.
Well, how many times have I
Heard that before, I sighed.
Still, she was kinda cute
For a midget and I puckered
Up, 'Close your eyes now.'
There was a fizzlepopping
Crackling snappling sound
And when I opened my eyes
She was gone, disappeared.
Boy, was I pissed off, so near
And yet so far, I thought,
Imagining the sauce, but
It was all too late and I
Turned to go, when suddenly,
In the distance hopping
Away on long juicy legs,
I saw her, gorgeous green
Frog, 'Wait,' I cried out,
'Wait. Can't we be friends?'
Her voice came back so tender,
'Knee deep,' she said, 'Knee deep.'
And as I waded through the pond
I knew, dammit, she was right.

READING     


I spent all afternoon reading
In a dilapidated rattan chair which

Had short sharp spikes waiting.

The armrests were hard and angular
No good for arms
But the fatter part of an open book
Nestles there neatly
When you pause
To look out of the window.
I tempted the cat
With my warm corduroy lap
But he ignored me.
Sure it will never end
Our feud over her
Until one of us is dead
And it's him
I have my money on.
Whenever I went to the kitchen
To fill up with coffee
He sprang an eye
But he never moved else.
Well fuck him.
I sleep with her behind locked doors
And he can kiss my arse.
The November light began to fade.
In the skeleton trees
I could see birds arranging themselves
And I put away my book,
The room in that glooming shadow
Artificial light spoils.
I stepped out
To "the stilly air of eventide"
And heard echoic rumbling
Familiar sound
Of the incoming Concorde
And there it was
Like a flat swan flying
In and out of cloud.
The telephone rang just then
And as I went back in
I could see his tail twitching
Brushing against the glass
Of my tropical aquarium.
It must be so uncomfortable for him
Lying on the hard surface
But it has the best view in the room.
I said we'd had a good day
Reading together, and yes I would 

meet her at the Chantecler and yes 

I had remembered to feed him.
Sure I said, he's looking at me now.

GIRL WITH UZI

I remember Ruth
Half of her was fat half was meat.
She liked Sundays
And in those days I was fast on my feet.
In and out of Mass
And running home with the papers
Couldn't wait to ink her arse.
We'd read the news all over the bed.
I knew she was going
Her eyes sad like that girl in the painting.
Often enough she called me
Made it easier to bear the waiting.
Out and about all day
I came home to find her farewell note.
She didn't know what to think.
The spare key glinted on the table.
I wanted to know
Why she chose to go to war.
She did her time
No one would have asked for more.
She knew my other friends at a distance.
Semites kill each other
And I thought it best in the circumstance
To keep them apart.
I never saw her again
But I found out why she went to fight.
It was written.
All my friends say she had a right.

IT'S A DOG'S LIFE.

Thursday. 3rd.
Hey! He let go the lead.
I'm free! Sure, I'll wait for him
at the corner, I ain't stupid.
Here we go. Where is he?
Shit, wossappnin?
What are all those people ... ?
Oh, no, I knew he'd ...
Hey, lemme in, he's my old man.
Ah, fuck it, I just hope,
someone thought to call Emergency.
I'll hang around here,
maybe I'll go home later when ...
Here it is, the ambulance,
poor old guy, looks pretty bad,
not the first time, oh well.
Hey! Waddayerdoing!?
Don't pick me up! I'm a fucking dog,
not a pussy. Hey!
Geeeeeez ... It's dark in here.
What's this, a hotel?
Waydaminnit. Wall to wall dogs!
What the fuck ... ?

Friday. 4th.
I miss my old man.
They give you shit to eat here,
I'm not on a diet, I mean,
And nobody talks to you,
like, not even the other dogs,
noisy bastards. Get a life!
I'll be glad when this is over
and I'm back home.

Monday. 18th.
Was that a boring weekend!?
No T.V. No snacks. Nada!
Like I say, I'll be glad to get ...
Now, what's this guy want?
Hey, watch the hands, man, HEY!
Where are you taking me?
This is kind of a bleak little room,
and what kind of a table is that?
It's cold, man ... Wossat?
Hey! Get your hands off. Waddayou doing?
Wait, wait, you motherfucking,
stupid fucking human,
wait, you've got it all wrong.
I'm in A1 condition, look,
always have been.
Get that thing away from me,
just let me go home,
and I'll say no more about it.
No! No! Wait! Stop that!
Ouch! You've got it all wrong,
I keep telling you,
it's not me who's the diab ...

BEAUTIFUL TO WATCH

Since the accident I walk slower,
Go to physio once a month and get laid,
I wish, get laid out, bitch, I love her.
My wheelchair is a lightweight model,
Stows away in the car just in case
And sometimes I give in and use it,
Spin myself down to the corner mailbox.
Jamie is coming to stay with me
For a few days, he doesn't get much time
To relax and he likes it here, the sea
And the countryside restore him.
I first met him at a match, he bowled
six overs of uninhibited pace,
Took three wickets including mine
And scored a glorious and sudden nought.
We went out to eat and became friends;
He missed his dad I think and well,
My kids are a long way away,
Grown up and making babies so
I let him walk all over me.
He made it into a county side,
On a trial, no contract but
A good chance of making the team
If he could just bowl straight
Long enough to do consistent damage.
He ran too, cross country and marathon,
one of those athletes, so beautiful to watch.
When I fell off the cliff he came
To the hospital and laughed,
It was funny I suppose, I hate flying.
He said he was going to Europe,
The county hadn't offered him a contract
And he had taken a job selling cars.
That was four years ago, and now
He's different, no more sport
Ever, but he doesn't let it get to him,
He wrote and told me so, last week.
I can't wait to see him, he'll be here
Any minute now in his new van,
There he is, turning the corner,
And I wave him into a space;
The ramp comes down and Jamie,
His smart electric chair zooming
Nearly runs me down, 'You old bastard,'
Punches me with a crooked hand;
I can feel it, the disease that will kill him
But he can still hit me where it hurts.

LOW LIGHT

The old man went down slowly
On to his knees.
He was already dead, I think.
His dog kept walking,
Trailing lead.
He had on one of those plastic collars,
Stop him eating himself.
The old man rolled over to his left,
Head landing on the concrete.
I couldn't hear the sound it made,
From up on the rooftop.
In a moment passers-by began to realise
And they converged on the still form.
The dog reached the corner and turned round.
I heard sirens closing. I started shooting.
Soon a crowd surrounded the man.
The little dog scurried up,
But he couldn't get through the ring of people,
So he trotted over to the railings.
The ambulance arrived and took the man away.
A couple of people hung around,
But nobody seemed to notice the dog
Squatting forlorn under the streetlamp.

I took a couple of shots of him.

CAUSE OF DEATH

Thing with dead mothers, you never know when they'll come back and haunt you.
You bury them, and you think, that's it, you'll be doing your own laundry. 

Acute renal failure, they said, kidneys up the creek. Well I'm not so sure about it. My 

brother has an idea she gave up, left it to Jesus, what with the Old Man at it with that 

Latin woman, and both of us knocking up our girlfriends one after the other. And the 

laundry, sure. I don't know though, you don't spend all that time swelling up in pain, 

suffering, to get out of a little washing, not even if you're a Catholic. Catholic as fuck, 

the sisters; mum, the youngest, first one off to heaven. 

Aunty Lillian, The Ward Sister, had rung to say we should come. Middle Aunty Celia

meets us, she's in floods. They held mum's hands, her eyes fluttered and she was gone.

Big Aunty put a blue arm around Middle Aunty's shoulders. Me and him leave them 

grieving.

I think she just died, like people do. Unlucky, so young. At least she never knew
about us, the sex and drugs and all that, the divorces. Well, not the divorces anyway, or
Himself, at it again, and again, but no, I think she died of love, of a broken heart. My 

daughter Sophie, The Teacher, arrived. Same eyes. Same hair. Same name.

HERE THERE BE HUMANS


The last explosions
travelled along their own lightwaves
to a trillion possible futures.
Embers have cooled and a pall of dust
rising from the dark world 
Is split apart by new mountains.
Trickling breezes gather
swirling into potential storms.
The signal from the first bomb disintegrates
as it strikes the giant star
thousand mile long flames reaching out
each tip pulsing gold.

On the reawakening world rain forms lakes.
At the edges crawling slime.
More light penetrates the clouds.
The signals one after another
reach the distant star.
Millennia disappear into space. 

When the world has grown into lush green
with long grasses and swaying trees
the poles are disguised again by plastic ice.
Circling storms break the silence.
The first eggs begin to fall
cracking in flaming streams
slowing in the atmosphere
tiny wings breaking free
scales reflecting the green earth
eyes the colours of starbursts.
The new world slowly turns
and the skies are filled with dragons.

PEACHES AND CREAM

My first fuck wasn't Geraldine Welby, no, and if I met her now I wouldn't if she asked. Godbotherer. Still, she gave me a few pointers. Not that I knew what to do with a pointer once I had one. Our first close encounter wasn't really what you'd call an actual fuck, in the conventional sense, more a kind of sudden awareness that took me unawares, if you follow. Sticky business.

In the long vacation from school I would fly out B.O.A.C to wherever my parents were based at the time and spend the whole summer playing with the servants, swimming in the warm sea, going to functions and stuff, like you do, or I'd go fishing off the end of one of the jetties and catch nothing but bloaters, bloaters and more bloaters. Annoying; everyone else caught everything else in the sea and I caught bloaters. When I took a skiff out, oh yes, then I caught pomfret and parrot fish and nearly a shark once. Well, the shark nearly caught me but I didn't know. Somebody shouted to me as I beached the boat and I looked back to see the fin flashing as it turned away, slicing through the water, not very fast, straight out of the inlet. I nearly had my first fainting fit but instead that evening I had my first fuck on the verandah of the P.A. Chairman's Residence. 

There were three boys out from school and we tended to stick together, playing cricket for the Commerce Club 2nd XI usually against teams from the Forces or a P&O side made up of spindly clerks with no idea what good coaching can do for boys with a cruel disregard for age or size. The P.A. Chairman's do was for families and there were girls there, Geraldine Welby for one, and she cornered me as usual. I think she took it in turns but it seemed that she was always nearly touching me, her skin kind of feinted by me and she smelled of Johnson's Baby Powder, and I suppose I did too which may have had a lot to do with it all. I think of it as the shark attack evening now. 

Parties were very organised affairs with acts, sailors in costumes usually, but that's another story and half way through the evening I felt quite ill. Scoffing too much of The English Cold Store peaches and cream probably but whatever it was, I was taking a stroll round the verandah to get some air and at the back of the house I met a girl completely different to Geraldine Welby, to anyone or anything ever. She held a glass and she raised it, tipped back her head and for a moment just stayed like that, then she ran her tongue over her lips and as she looked down again she saw me. She filled the glass from a clear bottle of Gordon's Gin, took a sip, put it down and looked at me. She reached under her dress and something ripped. The sounds from the party on the lawn drifted faintly as she slowly raised her dress and fixed it in a black patent belt. Her naked legs were not like the naked legs I'd seen at the pool. 

She carefully undid my grey flannels, button by button, pulled us both down to the boarded floor. I began to tremble and she helped me. She dug her nails into my buttocks and held on to me. The pain made me wince but I wouldn't have stopped for anything. I did, though, pretty soon, I couldn't quite keep up the momentum. No amount of coaching would have made a difference then, no. She rearranged her dress and sipped her gin. I stood up and turned away; only my mum and matron had seen me naked from the front like that. Well, not quite like that. 

"Good boy.", she whispered as I limped away. I heard the rasp of a match and smelled cigarette smoke. 

ARRIVAL

The southwest wind came at high tide
Bringing smokey rain,
And wave upon wave breaking
Over rocky shore,
Twisting the sand, creamy
With bursting bubbles.
Hanging air was warm to touch.
Morning was at noon,
Day and sunset dissolved
Into evening's grey.
The sky sparked, birds,
Quick and low, flew homeward.
Insects mostly hid.
Snakes in the grass sipped
Electric air, laced
With the smells of fear.
Pariah dogs observed
From every sheltered corner,
And small boys
Running in the rain,
Their silver skins
Like fishes flashing,
Catching monsoon's moon.

KISSING COUSINS


Is it yourself? Says Murphy. How are yer?

It turns out the first coachload is early this year. A convention of nuns, a side
of beefy hurlers, a pair of peculiar fun lovers, thirteen born again ugly arseholes
and a long thin sciolist looking to sharpen up his act.

You visited the spot? Says I. It's been a long time.

Sure, me and Malone first at the wall, the others in a line, taking aim.

I'm reminded. Murphy, the Misses Hoolighan ... ?

Ah, the brave colleens, well, me and Malone, we trowed one innem each, before
and after, took turns on the road back, let them off by the gate at Raheenagh 
Church. Father Twomey heard their confessions, they said, tree Hail Marys. We
dropped the guns in the Deen, you know the score

Yeah, you know the score. Up the Republic and bless the dollar. My regards,
says I, to Malone.

DEAR READERS


My story is a sad one. I flew off a cliff a few years ago. Yes,
I am that Ignatious Malone. On a summer day full of promise
and brilliant lighting conditions, I was lying on my stomach on
a slab of rock on a cliff edge in the West Country, photographing
a shipwreck. Suddenly, a shimmering whiteness came gliding
into view and there was this ethereal being hanging above me
dangling its legs. 'Oh my god!' I said. There was a crack of doom,
and I thought I heard a deep voice say, 'On the button, Sunshine,
your time has come.'

The crack was the slab splitting - doom enough, no?
I began to fall. I fell a long, long way, broke my fall, and
a leg, when I hit a ledge, then I fell some more, caught
my left arm in bushes, tore my shoulder out, spun round
and slammed into the cliff face with mine, felt my jaw
dislocate, mouth bloody, which stopped me screaming so
when I finally reached the bottom, one more broken
limb didn't seem to matter that much, especially with my fingers
bent back the way they were, snapped across, though
not all of them which was lucky because the camera strap
around my neck was choking me dead. I was just able to free
myself when I passed out from the pain, but not before the
ethereal being reappeared, floating just above me, 'Told you so,'
it said, and the next thing was that I felt myself flying through
the air, on my back, breathing through a mask. Two days later
I woke up in hospital, mummified, breathing through a hole.

It was early in the morning, so when I screamed it took a minute
before a blue nurse stopped by and stabbed me. I had three
unbroken ribs apparently, one good arm, and my internal organs
would improve with time, she said, once they relocated, of course, 

and I'd be surprised how attractive a broken nose could be,
on my face.

I saw a sweet little old nun coming  down the ward and she caught
my eye, gave a holy wave and came toward me, and I thought, 'Sister,
have I got news for you.'

PROOF


I bought a font at the sale, all but complete. Roman type, nothing
fancy. A couple of galleys and some artwork, probably the last job in
hand before old Perkins died. I bid for a set of illustrated calendars,
but it went too high for me. The family, I think, and I was glad I
didn't get it.

'Never mind,' Mary said.

We had lunch. She was twenty, no something, and very bright. She
always said I discovered her. Sure, I gave her name to an art director I
knew and he took her on for a few months. Then she stayed, with him. She
wrote well. It isn't art, it's lying on demand. She understood that and
she had some crazy ideas. She would phone and spin me the tale, tape it.
Sometimes we'd spend a few hours together, like today. 

I took her to the sale, show her where she came from. Ink and hot metal. 

I had bought a framed foolscap page of printers correction symbols for her. 

'Look at this,' she said, 'transpose sections'. She thought the mark was like
half a battlement, and I suppose it is. 'Insert double quotation marks' is

like somebody sleeping. She got a little drunk and leaned on me in the car. 

I drove her to her flat and she leaned on me in the lift. I made coffee but when 

I took it into the sitting room she was asleep, her feet under a throw. I covered 

her and left. Insert full stop.

A SUNDAY 


Strolling, not aimlessly
But as the snail,
Determined, I chanced upon
Wrigley and his dog.
The sea breezes
Cooled us where we stopped
Chatting of this,
That, and that other thing.
Elgar, Wrigley's dog,
An animal of brutal mien
But soft hearted,
Solicited my attention
By gently nuzzling
My summer shorts,
And at last licking
The inside of my thigh
Since I was so busy
With his master.
Abandoning that confabulation
I leaned down
And gathered up the monster,
Gripping behind the ears,
Like you do, hugging and, well,
Hugging some more.
Elgar is a dog
Whose affections are large
And pressing
If he likes you.
I am one of his favourites.
There are few things
More congenial
Than the friendship
Of an honest dog.
We strode off together, Wrigley,
Wrigley's dog,
And me, until we reached
The Lifeboat Station,
Where we parted.
I watched them a moment
Before walking up to the town.
I decided on lunch
In The Railway Hotel,
An extravagance
On this fine day, sure.
And why not?

There I am, then, at a table
With a tablecloth.
Louisa brings grissini and a menu
And I resist,
With some difficulty,
Licking the inside of her thigh.