Next Year in Jerusalem

We’re rubbing up against the peeling weather

walls and now next year in Jerusalem

two awkward conquerors in black leather

will make their epidemic honeymoon.

Even fully booked the Dead Sea is free

of things likely to kill you she said.

Busy breeding angels in the arsehole

of the happy world he was short with his mother.

Never again will son be your Ireland.

I cc’d what you did there she howl

beneath the innocent salt we found another.

We’re rubbing up against the soil.