Summer rain and cigarettes
and Jenny’s cheap Shiraz
with my brother and my lover
and old Playboy covers
flirting on the wall with a picture of Oscar
our eyes wilder and wider
with every empty bottle,
pouring our souls into our cups
because tomorrow, they say,
is a day away.
Now out into the night,
under the glimmering lights and strangers’ smiles
past whores and doors and the sounds of the seashore
and up on the roof of the Goat’s Toe
where all the young bucks go
through their hipster mating rituals
instead of dancing the night away
like it’s 69 or 77 or some other tired cliché
from the boozy recesses of my brain.
And in the clamour
I hear Jesus whispering clearer
than he ever did in church
and the Eucharist tastes nicer
with a bag of crisps
and there’s Lucifer in the corner
with his pitcher always fuller
'cause it's hard to always play the bad guy.
But tomorrow back to Belfast
the hungover train will spit me back
where the lost youths of Fountain street
confer with ancient punks
whose drunken chatter
contains more wisdom than Saint Paul or the Gita
and where the beat stirs your blood
until the dawn paints the city red.
at the end of the day
I’m still just a little boy
who lost his soul, self and sister
in the dark, dark woods
lost in the woods
where Lucifer roams
than locked with the choir
in gilded tombs
There are no stars,
The sun is gone
And the moon
Is just a stone.
I accidentally played jazz and street punk at the same time on my computer. I think I’ve created a new genre.