As Cuimhne

Bhí sé scríofa ar na ballaí fadó.
Go gasta a chuaigh sí
ar na boithre gan treo
go háiteanna nach bhfuil ann
idir aislingí bréagacha
gan machnamh
gan léargas
Chuaigh sí amach as cuimhne
a saoil ina gréasán aici
gan breathniú orm
gan smaointe orm
Ach….gan deireadh
ag fanacht go suaimhneach orm
póg a thabhairt di.

Mac Giolla Fhaoláin 2016

eksistensiel forsømthed
fordømt, for tømt for ting
et hvidt ***, blænder
tænderne under læberne
sammenknebne
livet har trukket mig med sig
på slæb
jeg kigger på dig men jeg kan ikke se dig
som en fantomforbløffelse
hvem er du
men det er vel et unfair spørgsmål
ikke enhver kan besvare
taber man energien, taber man pusten, taber man tråden?
endten har ingen det, ellers har alle det
alting opløses foran mig foran min opløselige krop som en
treo i vandhanevand
som blod på tube
gennemanalyseret og forsømt
min krop er af gelé
og jeg smelter ned i min madras
hvem vil ikke gerne danse hver aften?
hvordan opnår vi
hvad vi vil
hvorfor vil vi det

livet er abstrakt for tiden

(from: Jonah's Map of the Whale)

(June 2003)

Quadruple witching hour.
A spread of futures and options
in upturned cards and palms,
expiring before our eyes.
Down point-eight-six this second Friday of June.
The witches, done squealing in the empty pit,
straighten their skirts and mount their brooms.
A storm hunkers above the isle,
wind rushes through the busy streets.
Lightning flares behind the cloud,
as thunder tumbles on electric stairs.
In a cab, heading uptown,
Coconuts drop from his Palm Treo:
“Jam on FDR, wait by the Iamassu”.
The Metropolitan, second floor, east face:
Assyrian grandeur.
The winged bull and lion of Nimrud,
alabaster guards that flank an arch
stare cold-eyed down a hall of slab reliefs.
He sees her hover by the yellow room beyond,
her silhouette dwarfed by the sculpted beasts.
Like Ishtar, she kicks at the doors of heaven.
Like Venus, she is out of bounds until Sunday.
She runs a finger along the bull’s cleft hoof
and checks for dust.
Polly, valent and aesthetic,
owner of an unconscious pout,
wonders what is keeping him.
And there he is, as if conjured.
The rain, roadworks, Irish driver,
you know…So you found them then,
the great Assyrian bulls…
No, they found me on the stairs,
asked me up for tea…extra sweet.
Said they’ve cousins in Nineveh,
modern Mosul, on the Tigris.
That’s nice.
Not in the least,
unless you like car bombs and dead kids.
Apologies to your tea-buddies.
Oh they’re used to the likes of you.
What do you mean, the likes of me?
They had Jonah down there once,
all grim and prophesying doom.
A tad late, but guess he was right…
A shrill little man with bad breath…
Whale bile, see; it does that to you.
Funny, sounds just like the VP.
A few inhibitors and a hand-job
that might have stopped all the trouble.
So that’s how you treat your patients…
No, most of them self-medicate.
So what happened to old Jonah?
Buried in a hill, with whale bone.
Home Sweet Home.
They sat on the bench, beneath a map:
The Drake, Chicago, Sunday at eight…
Alright, and how is your lovely wife?
She signed… I have nudunnu,
perfumes to pour upon your head.
Sent her back to daddy, then?
Mother was livid, her lotus curled shut.
She wouldn’t have you near her, see,
defiled as you are by work,
but my future is with you.
Is that an assumption agreement,
Or a proposal?
Does it matter?
Yes, I do.