You saw Judy on the south wing
of the old folks nursing home
near to Mr Atkinson’s room
carrying towels in her arms

I need to speak to you
you said
what about?
she asked

you playfully bundled her
into Bob Atkinson’s room
(he was either
in the lounge

or out down town
hobbling along
for small items of shopping
or at the second-hand

book shop looking
for boy’s annuals
of yesteryear
which he read

from cover to cover
before cutting out
the pictures
and sticking them

in albums)
what are you doing?
she said
what if Bob comes in?

he won’t
he’s out
you said
but what if he does?

she whispered
well unless I was rogering you
to kingdom come
I don’t think he’d mind

you said
pressing her 5’5’’ body
against the door
and looking into her

grey blue eyes
she gazed
into your eyes
and said

what do you need
to talk to me about?
I think I’m in love with you
you said

she sighed
that’s the umpteen time
you’ve told me that
she said  

she dropped the towels
on Bob’s bed
and put her arms
around your waist

and drew you closer
you moved your left hand
around her back
and your right hand

on her buttocks
and said
that’s because it’s
umpteen times worse

or better depending
how you look at it
she kissed you on the lips
and you sensed

her tongue touch yours
her eyes closed
and you closed yours
the room becoming

a far away place
her perfume blending
into the air about you
the ticktock of Bob’s

old clock on the bedside table
like some metronome
setting the pace
as if it was all part

of some song or some
deep aspect
of a Bruckner symphony
she pushed you away

and said
it’s nearly break time
and people will wonder
why we’re not there

and put one
and one together
ok
you said

removing your hand
from her ****
the warmth still there
her eyes still captured

in your inner self
thank you
for the Chagall postcard
I’ve put it on

my bedside table
along with that photo
you gave me of you
got to go

she said
and opened the door
and walked off
down the passage

you looked around
Bob’s room
at the ticking clock
and the blue

candlewick cover
and the picture
of some boy
cut out of some

old annual
chasing a dog
over a field
and Judy’s lips

and tongue
seemed still
to be there
in your mouth

and her hand enfolding
your waist and back
and Peter in the pants
going all slack.

It's Friday evening from life's cares we'll have a brief leave taking
And lets go to the Basy Pub for hour of merry making
In confines of the Settlers Bar the voice of mirth is ringing
And Pete Atkinson from Dublin Town an Irish song is singing.

The Mckelvey men father and son are talking of horse racing
They know the horses inside out from form and race card tracing
Has Vo rogue gone over the hill, can Horlicks race to glory
Can Almaarad come bouncing back and go down in history?

Phil Cronin go back down the years he flick back through life pages
To friends he knew in Millstreet Town he has not seen for ages
Big Jerry Shea and Mister O, James Manley hale and hearty
And Johnny Sing from Millview Lane the life of every party.

Brave Harry the brave English man the one as tough as leather
You'll only see that man in shorts no matter what the weather
A man of elephantine strength yet gentle and kind hearted
And he has taken life's hardest blow since his son this world departed.

Big **** Kissane the Kerry man he doesn't like Maggie Thatcher
And he feels that for Union bashing that few in history could match her
Still he won't go back to Kenmare to weather wet and hazy
He'd much prefer Mt Evelyn it's nearer to the Baysy.

**** Kelleher and Phil Schofield well into greyhound breeding
They talk of how greyhounds should be schooled and for them proper feeding
Two greyhound trainers and of late their reputations growing
And Millstreet Town keep racing on when others dogs are slowing.

Vin Schofield a Manchester Man he does love Man United
And every time United win he feel proud and delighted
But United not doing well of late of late they're not impressing
And this too much for him to take he find it all depressing.

Galway's Matt Duggan and Westmeath's Sean Fay the hurling game debating
On the first sunday of September who will be celebrating
Can Westmeath make the big break through or will Galway flags be waving
Or will Tipperary still be champs their reputation saving?

And Marty Kerins from Mayo a good and happy fellow
I've never met him in bad mood I've always found him mellow
He love the Bayswater Hotel he say there is none better
And to be kept from Settlers Bar he'd have to be in fetter.

And **** O Shea from Dublin his friends are in the many
And he doesn't have one enemy and he doesn't deserve any
He's given homes to Homeless souls and he's easily moved to pity
And good a man as ever came to live in this great City.

The amazing J D Ellis his name and fame keep spreading
And he has bounced back from the floor and for the top he's heading
Still he is easily stirred up and Garry Carter does the stirring
And el tigre he begins to growl the cat's no longer purring.

It's friday evening from life's cares we'll have a brief leave taking
And where better than the Basy Pub for hour of merry making
In Confines of the Settlers Bar the voice of mirth is ringing
And Pete Atkinson from Dublin Town an Irish song is singing.

Mrs Atkinson you have touched my refrain
I have sought to exalt your memory
and recall the passion,
only occasionally  have I  been stirred
by a resemblance of your quite sitting,
but as I have come this far
I feel a peak of perfection
that none could quite compare.

Sophia was out of luck
if she thought Benedict
was going to fall for that
that mid morning ****

and on
old Mr Atkinson's bed
(how he liked
his Wagner)

creeping up
on him like that
grabbing him
around the waist

and pushing him
to the bed
and saying
O come on

just a quickie for me
(Polish accent
not shown here)
no no

he said
not here and now
I’ve jobs to do
baths to attend to

old men
to get ready
and she lay over him
spread out on him

her bulging *******
kind of pinning him down
but it is my birthday
she said

it is good to do
the unexpected
now and then
her breath smelt

of peppermint
her body
eased on him deeper
he kept his hands

away from her
at his sides
best he could
all temptations

held in check
you can do
what you like
she said

good then
let me go
and I’ll go run
some baths

he said
anyway
it's near morning
coffee break

I need my fill
of coffee
you could take me here
she said

from the front or rear
no no
he said
trying to get off

the bed
his hands attempting
to push her off
touching her body

soft and supple
her breast touched
accidentally
what if I scream out

and say you tried
to have me?
she said
go ahead

he said
they know me
they know
you're always after me

I’ll say you tried
to have me here
on Mr Atkinson's bed
they believe me

she said
I'm the female
go ahead then
scream off your head

he said
but she moved off of him
and arranged
her clothes tidily

pushed her hair
into shape
and said
I’ll have you next time

Benny boy
next time
we have it quick
and on some other bed

and he rearranged
his shirt and tie
and watched
as she walked off

down the passageway
her fine behind
giving it
that **** sway.

You could hear her
calling your name
along the passage
her Polish kind

of broken English
was unmistakable
you hid by the sink
of Mr Atkinson's room

the other side
of the panel
which hid you
from view

from the door
Benedict are you up here?
Sophia called
you leaned back

as far as you could
in case she should
open the door
and peer in

you could hear
her flip-flops
on the linoleum floor
I want you

she said
want you
speak to me
you noticed Mr Atkinson's

Rupert annual
on the dresser
across the room
(he had a child's mind

and loved those books)
you also noticed
a glimpse of your refection
in the dresser's mirror

black trousers
white coat
red tie
and white shirt

she'd stopped outside
the door of Mr Cutler's room
she knocked
and opened

Benedict are you here?
no
you whispered
in undertone voice

where the **** are you?
you heard her say
she closed Mr Cutler's door
and waited outside

the room you were in
you sensed her breathing
her tap tap on the door
you squeezed yourself

hard against the sink
last time she'd caught you
up here on the old men's wing
she had you

on Mr Haymaker's bed
her slim 19 year old body
wrapped about you
her blonde hair tied

in a black bow
her body saying
go go go
Benedict are you here?

you shook your head
hands behind your back
your backside pushed hard
against the enamel sink

I want talk to you
she said
she opened the door
and looked in

out of the window opposite
you you could see trees
swaying in the breeze
the sky grey blue

she came into the room
and picked up
the Rupert annual
from the dresser

you saw her blue uniform
the back of her slim body
the narrowed waist
the shapely backside

the well shaped legs
her blonde hair
tied at the back
with the familiar ribbon

you bit your lip
and held your breath
she scanned through
the annual

flicking pages
gazing at pictures
if she gazed
in the dresser mirror

she'd see your reflection
Benedict
she said to herself
I've red underwear on

you stopped breathing
stared at her back
the way she stood
she put down

the annual
on the dresser
retreated back out
of the room

not turning to look
around the room
the door closed
you heard her flip-flops

move away
along the passageway
no one would believe you
if you told them

and whatever they may say
you had escaped
from Sophia
for another day.

added to the fact that guns 'n' roses cite the Texan twang that can't be New Orleans in their song civil war from the album use your illusion pt. 2 from this film.

i play tricks with my father, rather i insinuate a strategy,
he's a worker of manual tedium,
we watch movies together and play the game:
what year, what actor, what other film was he in.
it paid off today... i sat watching *gentlemen prefer
blondes, oh god the American Renaissance
between the 50s and 60s and all that poetry...
where normal women would be considered fat
by today's standards of beauty-torture -
those thighs! those legs! then i started watching
cool hand luke... the man spotted Dennis Hopper!
playing Babalugats... the madman, sing-along...
a truly broken man, with such a defence membrane
that he escaped reality altogether, not the sort
of reality that cool Luke tried escaping from by
stealing one truck and taking the keys from the other
vehicles of the chain-gang in the deep south...
Babalugats did the real escape, he went mad, he said:
**** it, give me the extinguisher of ego, i'm
in a burning building, scortch my insides but
leave me immune to the fire of labour and iron bars
and that ******* routine of prison life!
he truly did escape, his threshold for enduring pain
increased to the point that he purred, clocked a chicken
strut and fellow prisoners took a pity on him to
the point of protecting him... the thing is...
i didn't spot Dennis Hopper... my father did... finally
the game i was invoking when watching movies:
the odd reference here and there paid off, i turned
my father into looking for cinematic patterns,
face recognitions, because of his manual profession
and his abhorrence of reading anything but the newspaper:
visual tactic... i'm seriously about to cry, and to not
vocalise it i pinch my nose as if snorkelling and then
no sound is made but the tears flow...
the game paid off, he became better than me at the game
of face-to-face association... i'm guessing this was
Dennis Hopper's debut... well after Blue Velvet he made
a name for himself... but like my grandfather said:
it takes great skill to play a Dostoyevsky idiot...
imagine Rowan Atkinson playing Mr. Bean or
the Antichrist playing Jesus of Nazareth - antimatter
and quantum physics and all to boot as
the rational cinematography allowance for people to
stomach such an eventuality.

and at the end of this session, i'm going to gorge on homemade banana cake, and a glass of milk; hmm, so that's that.

hannah hallysem, chloe vevrier, rosalia verne, dakota skye, nadine jansen, milena d., katrina jade, alison tyler, sasha foxxx, noelle easton, shay fox, kourtney kane, aletta ocean, lexi belle, aria giovanni, maritza mendez, silvia loret, laura lion, ashley graham, latex lucy, alexis texas,  dana dearmond, abella danger, karmen karma, jezebelle bond, keisha grey, karmen grey, jelena jensen, carmen croft, aneta buena, ines cudna, ewa sonnet, emma green, louisa marie, ivy nedkova, karolina pliskova, emma green, louisa marie, ivy nedkova, rooney mara, claire forlani, kelley scarlett, malina may, amirah adara, phoenix marie, foxy di., kenya lust, kiera winters, christy mack, paige delight, faith nelson, darya klishina, sand morris, alysha newman, silvia saint, adele stephens, deven davis, ewa wyrwal, tanya song, synn wagner, christina lucci, hunter leigh, lynda leigh, gemma atkinson, mulani rivera, sarah harding...
        
   all those "expectations" mingling with a *babuska...
gotta have a babuska after a list like that...
      looks nice, doesn't it?
         see how honest other people can become...
      that's as honest as you're going to get:
i'm hardly an out-of-the-closet gay / intellectual...
and this is hardly the most desireds genetical "encyclopedia"
worth reciting...
      but at least there's no closet,
and certainly no skeleton in it...
  to be honest, i'd love to see a compendium of
a woman's favourite *****,
   oh sure, i can switch off...
    i just start thinking about cow *******
and milk sacks; not that hard;
  ugh... furr... itchy... stroking a cow is like
scratching your skin after the barbers...
milking a cow: ah... another subject
of investigation...
                        why do men not bother being
breast-fed, to out-compete the babe?
seems a shame to leave a vacuum for
capitalism to not investigate, don't you think?

When I began my track of green
Two horses pulled a harrow
Since them days I'm in between
Despite my lane being narrow.

When upon me, you are found
Where power poles seldom travel
They'll say I thrive on stoney ground
With potholes and no gravel.

In April/June cow parsley grows
Up high beyond my level
In either ditch, hill water flows
With harmony they revel.

Sometimes when I pass a gate
Where sunlight hits in patches
Pre balding always is my fate
Bare spots expose my thatches.

I wind along like Patrick's snake
Past farm yards prim and proper
Sometimes I smell the morning bake
But I can's stop till supper.

I hear donkey's, dogs and hens
Bray barking and brood clucking
Often sheep enclosed in pens
Or pigs in mud and mucking.

Though my crease is never split
It's often greased and oily
Those leaky sumps and axle grit
From farmer Pat O'Reilly.

From up above I'm rarely seen
When passing under bridges
But rest assured I'm evergreen
A home to ants and midges.

There is no road without a bend
It's here they make a wasteland
Our Emerald Isle is but pretend
Our brooks a septic mace brand.

But I digress, I must move on
And wait beside that junction
Many the likes of me have gone
But I still have compunction.

I went to see if it was better
On the far side of the hill
But no its not and even tattier
What's there’s the same old drill.

I'm Median Green and center-ist
I'm country and I'm clean
So keep your townie offal list
It's not for me to glean.


ps..



The green line of grass on the
centre of a road by Courtney
Atkinson's farm in Mallow Ireland
talks about its origins and destiny
and what happens in between
in a day of its life.