Joyce of Reason
the black stuff
skirts the plump bustled bar
as growing rush of ambient noise
climbs
to deafening silence
where blood is bitumen flushed
to drowning brain
sticky tainted
stoutly stained
reminiscent of signs of legend
that fused this
infusion
No Blacks No Irish
No dogs
he sits there eyes glazed
leaning against the wild wind
anchored by deep
deep
deep
Irish route he once read
peat boggy repeated
belch
at its deepest
bled inside a strong dark pint
the black earth
awaits a settling head
as semen coloured bubbles coat
his innerspace
cloud
his storm
fecund
not of these shores
he is
not of these shores
No Blacks No Irish
No dogs
he mourns
the passing of the peaceful dark
with every taste
spits a spark
the pen goes down
to free his hand
and with every taste
he frees his hand
for testimony
the truth
the whole truth
and nothing but the truth
ink now runs
as free and black
as dying molten glass
down his convulsing throat
past freezing shoulder
to frozen heart
which will no longer hear his words
over silent dark
No Blacks No Irish
No dogs
to pen this
envy
a start
to suicide note
cadence of ghost
and a melody
listening to fluid reason
waiting
for a head to settle
welcome
to the craic whore
the opening door calls
fiddled fine fettle
we are immigrants all
Rick Dove (c) 2016