Poems
Belfast Rose
Do they not have breasts on Bondi Beach
that you must strive so hard for a fill of mine
across this Guinness foam?
They're the beauties of this Irish Rose.
Yes, your man has told me that before.
The beasts of the field, it seems
graze the same. Be it New World or
Old world order,
pub love's the same.
So it's praising my smile and clever mind
you are. Quick on the hop for sure.
Now that's my kind of kangaroo court.
If you knew how weary I am
of these pop gun men
and their Bogside pain
you'd save your fuel for the hump ahead.
The lights in these eyes
are nowhere near red.
Have I not earned a break
from knees that won't bend?
I crave the feel of skin that's burnt
from sun alone and blood that's hot
from no more than the sight of a blouse,
two sizes smaller
than it has a right to be.
So come and play my wild colonial boy.
But understand, mind
you'll slap no board wax upon this back.
It's Home come morning
and Away for you
Don't even expect to walk with me after
through the gunmetal grey
of the Shankill Road.
Only your man with a brogue gets that.
Postcard from Africa
tells me the Jungle Boy is still out there
sleeping in cars
smashed on township jazz
occasionally creeping close to camp
to whistle our special call.
Distance
Omens
Journeys
3 sides of a tidal heart
that cannot resist
full moon.