Drunk As Brendan Behan Poem by Michele Vassal

Lovers lovers
their empty skins
hang limp in opiate closets
pulsing between insinuations
of naphthalene and the barbitural scent
of forgetting, they swing embittered
and toxic, mothy costumes
of a play that lingers only
on faded posters
and skin.

On the wrong side of midnight
drunk as Brendan Behan
I scooped up a last high king
kneeling on Clontarf road
battled out
knees sanded to the bone
by the wet grit of ancient wars
singing
something
about not worrying about a thing
amongst Viking corpses
on the steps of the Bank of Ireland
where Wood Quay used to be
we kissed ourselves an island.

I clinched a burned out arsonist
hands shaking
climbing railings
in Stephens Green
feckin'
left an aftertaste of phosphorus
reeking red
like inhaling
the soul of a cracked match.

I chased a light eyed dragon
heart caving in to the count of nine
elliptic filigree of sins I kept
twitching inside a reliquary
of abalone dreams whilst
the rosary of Chopin's Polonaise
undid itself in silver beads.


I slashed my defeats in the wrists of actors
snorted stars on the mercurial mirrors
of their well rehearsed eyes
and DT'ed on night's poitìn
when I drank neat the distilled dew
glistening on the mouths of girls.