The onion, now that's something else
its innards don't exist
nothing but pure onionhood
fills this devout onionist
oniony on the inside
onionesque it appears
it follows its own daimonion
without our human tears

our skin is just a coverup
for the land where none dare to go
an internal inferno
the anathema of anatomy
in an onion there's only onion
from its top to it's toe
onionymous monomania
unanimous omninudity

at peace, at peace
internally at rest
inside it, there's a smaller one
of undiminished worth
the second holds a third one
the third contains a fourth
a centripetal fugue
polypony compressed

nature's rotundest tummy
its greatest success story
the onion drapes itself in it's
own aureoles of glory
we hold veins, nerves, and fat
secretions' secret sections
not for us such idiotic
onionoid perfections


Wisława Szymborska, translated from the Polish by Stanisław Barańczak & Clare Cavanagh

We had been
to the Impressionist gallery
in Paris
been to the Tower
seen the views
had coffees
and seen street artists
and Sonya was wanting
to see an American film
at a cinema with sub-titles

I’m not keen
I said

why not?

I can see it
once back in the UK
without having to read script
on the screen
at the same time
watch the action
anyway seeing Clint Eastwood
speaking French
is off putting

she pulled a face
and went sat down
on a seat of some café
and I sat next to her

you always have to spoil things
she said
reading the menu
it's in French
she said

we're in France

so how am I to know
what to order?

point at it
and ask what it is

she looked at me
with her icy-blue eyes
she tossed back hair
from her face

I went with you
to the art gallery
she said
to see all those boring Impressionists
but you can't go with me
to see Clint

a waiter came up to us
and she asked him
if we could
have two coffees with cream
he nodded and smiled at her
and went off

he's ****

I didn't notice

had lovely eyes
dark and deep

he's a waiter and French
I said

I can imagine him
beside me in bed
breathing on me
with his breath

oniony and garlicky

she tapped my hand
jealous is what you are
she said

I don't want him
you do
I said

I didn't say I wanted him
I said I could
imagine him in my bed
she muttered

she looked around her
at the other tables

I looked at her profile
the curve of neck
the run of her jawline
her ear visible
through her blonde hair
momentarily
I felt like a vampire
wanting to sink
my teeth
into the soft flesh
of her neck
and **** her sexily

she looked back at me
you owe me
she said
having to go
to that boring art place

ok
I said
what do you want?

I want to see the film
with Clint Eastwood

ok
I said
thinking of the bed
and her
and do what I could
if she would.

I'm eating the last cannoli. Pop's  funeral was over a week ago, and since it was the storm of the century that day, the caterer had way too many leftovers. This is the last remains of that infamous day's dessert. It's well past soggy, and smells now of the sliced onions left from the hoagie platters. Those, I'll just toss. No sense risking another death in the family. It's not so delectable, I know, but I'm eating the last cannoli, because that's what pops would do. He didn't waste a thing, symptom of being raised through the depression, I suppose. The depression, yeah, can't let that get to me, he wouldn't want it that way. I'm eating the last cannoli, choking back tears, and pinching my nose to get past the smell of this prose, and an onion smelling soggy cannoli, 'cause that's what pop would want.

Last remains, yeah, those are here too. Dad's ashes, that is. All tidy in a beautiful blue marble box, mom chose for both their internment. She mostly sits staring at the flowers sent, that are about ready to expire themselves. The strong scent of lilies in the air, helps with that odd oniony aroma. I'm eating the last cannoli, because mom is insistent I should. I wouldn't argue with her over it. Neither would pop. So, I'm eating the last cannoli.

At ringend on june sixteenth nineteen hundred and four
                                                                     Molly opens her door
and Literate Leopold plonks his kosher black pudding into her hand
                                                                                        Isn't it grand
                                                                 to be remembered this way?
Walking the streets and ******* the teats of the sow that eats its children
Searching for meat on O'Connel streeet that has the tang of scented *****
The well known literate degenerates
long to have  their hot-dogs stroked by baaaaaaaaaarnacles
whilst sellin' knick-nack Paddywackery of dear old ***** dumpling
                     How do they walk with her sausages
                                  and inner organs  of beasts and fowls?
their shanks ****** dry of whuskey on Denny's big breakfast show
                Well **** your ****! With a flame-grilled
                                                                       samuel
                                                                                 becket burger
                                                                             and a side order
                                                                       of oscar wilde fries

"warmth showered gently over him, cowing his flesh. Flesh yeilded amid rumpled clothes.
Whites of eyes swooning up. His nostrils arched themselves for prey. Melting breast ointments.
Armpits oniony sweat .
Fishgluey slime.
Feel!
Press!
Crushed!
Sulphur dung of lions
Young!  Young!

                 In the petri-
                               Pish
                               Pish
                               Pish
                               Dish
spitoon culture
           the illiteraaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaati
                                      hold a party
                  
                "I'm a tiny tiny thing
                     Ever flying in the spring
                       Round and round a ringaring
                                                  Long ago I was king
                                        Now I do this kind of thing
                                     On the wing, onnnnnnnn the wing!"
                                                    Bing!

Professor Latelate Lateshow Late review
Was talking to ME……..        about yew
What do yew think of that aesthetic crew?
                                  The opal hush poets?
                                   The master mystiks?
The wanz thit
       *** to me
          in the sma' oors
               o the mournin'
                    tae ask aboot
                       plains o consciousness?

They're all Barbers, says he, from the Black Country that would hang their own fathers for five quid down and travelling expenses!

In Dublin's fine city
Where the wine bars are pretty
You can't find an ashtray
You must smoke alone.

                                                                                  Isn't it grand
                                                               To be remembered this way
Walking the streets and ******* the teats of the sow that eats its children?