The ghosts who sell memories

There’s a forty ton truck

Coming his way

Will he sway out of the way?

Or, does he believe that nothing happens by accident?

Are you on your phone, texting your mate?

Hurrying up so you wont be late

Later, will you scream all alone?

Fall into the opposite of mystic,

Sink into real pain?

Dark river flowing

Through your veins

As you moan

like the animal we are

Patrick Kavanagh

In a wet Monaghan field

Not stoned but not secure on his seat

Or legs, has drink taken,

Amply disheveled, Irish, on his feet

before jumping into the canal

On a sunny day

Feet first

Look at this lovely

Manchester Man

Look at his threadbare jacket

In this soaking misty rain

Look at his shoulders slumped

All humped over

He once was a British soldier

Set, like a clock, then struck like a boulder

He’ll never get over being hooked

To a drip

He is

so fucked over

Way,

Way out of bounds

Way out of reach

Sits here, on this seat,

Every day

Drinking white cider

He doesn’t like to mither

Anybody. .