for Kate O’Shea
Go hang yourselves, boys,
before you announce some martyr wept
tears for her enough to cause the Liffey
to flood or swell the Irish Sea. Hang yourselves
and your Celtic twilight too.
The sweetness of sonnets is sickly, boys.
No beau wants to choke
on the lady’s vomit. Go hang
yourselves if claiming long lost
Broadway lyrics penned
prematurely ; as if she’d nibble
at your deaf ear Let’s do it.
Best hang yourselves. Insist and I could swipe
a jawbone to take ten thousand down
and raze her city too. But what of that?
In such swift time she’ll have stuffed
your mouths with her sass.
The Monterey Strat
Made up and flaunting my body,
some would say I was asking for it.
The much plainer one he’d been with
all night; caressed her, kissed her, stroked,
fingered and licked her. Those hands
knew what they were doing;
who wouldn’t want a bit of that?
All night he wowed and wooed,
and it was the Summer of Love for Christ’s sake.
Shy, yet mischievous, how I thought him
from the wings. To be in his arms,
my curves tucked into his. The bastard
played a cheap tune on me; even that foreplay
was mocked by the violence to follow. He had me
up against the amp, laid me out, burned me.
Those long, strong fingers around my neck,
he smashed me to the stage; our music distorted.
The witnesses did nothing despite their shock.
It was obvious he’d do it to another.
Sloth on the Dawn Chorus
Sloth is not of the belief
that even music lovers wake up singing.
The birds may be lamenting the early light
and no lie-in. Some screech, some hoot,
some with shoulders back look to seize
the fucking day and all who have disturbed it.
Sloth can’t consider it a chorus
if they are all intent on different tunes.
He feels his late noon yawns
and farts much more symphonic.