There was a woman,
she is not in this poem.
But occupies this line and another,
nonetheless.

Effing Bridge -
Effing City more like.

Through the rain stained glass,
With a sickly purple hue,
I can see early marsh orchid,
And it makes me think of you.

The gardener's son
Is looking at it too,
His sickly grey suit
Makes me think of you.

I was not born a bog child,
I was only passing through,
The Irish Lady's Tresses
Made me think of you.

That the amount of no right turn signs in Dublin's inner city is criminal.

there's a glass jar around a heart
with titanium tubes feeding into the aorta
It's on a display in a museum
it's art
it's art
the blood looks sort of like
strawberry cream

Most people sweat euros and pounds,
I sweat coffee and gin.  
Here I am, in the ooze of my existence,
Laughing and smiling,
counting smiles on my fingertips,
quantifying my existence:
fizzle and pop, smile till you drop.

THOUGH you are in your shining days,
Voices among the crowd
And new friends busy with your praise,
Be not unkind or proud,
But think about old friends the most:
Time's bitter flood will rise,
Your beauty perish and be lost
For all eyes but these eyes.

The feather stirs,
She lives!
Howl, she does not,
If she did her breath would mist the stone.

My poor fool,
Hang'd.
Look on her,
Her lips,
Look on her lips.

How pathetic a mirror and a feather
and an old king seem now.
She was Christ-like,
Angelic,
Look on her lips.
The Fool,
Hang'd.

Do you see this?
No breath mists the stone,
No feather stirs,
Look on her,
Look there, look there.

You men have hearts of stone.