'Photo of real rocks at sunset on a promenade in NI'.
The lips of time bear down,
like the hairy mouth of the well-meaning kindly old women who play's piano at Balett,for flushed fat little girls and the embarrassed boy in tights,
Should have been Captin,
Captin kamikaze Guinness now.
And is so with in his rights;
the medals for real life would tip him sideways.
Sill jealous of her, middle age and still makes me look like a rugby aunt.
Made of steel cast in gold.
Know now, that Irish society now holds together with out a hint of police.
Col. Sanders see the boys in bluebottle more then most.
The North coast has motorbikes in its blood; they found the Holy Grail of posttraumatic stress syndrome need for adrenalin.
It’s the painted curb that looks so good.
Nether red, blue, green and gold,
It’s the white stripe of racing.
A flash of impact.
To selfless love, of the motorbike racer, hes so entertaining,
his passing so fast then devastating.
Its white rock brilliant against the fucken grey.
Gnarly old Irish bloke in real fisherman’s pub.” So you enjoying your Holladay?”
Me”Iv seen my first wild dolphin to day and Iv waited 38 years to see it”
“Youuurr ree aaa” He pin balls as fast as he can down the mustard crumbling airtex corridor, away from me.
Parked me space ship behind the pub..
Its been a perfict day.
Grand.
We all had to kiss her at the end of every Ballit class, that scary hairy mouth of the piano player.
A small price to pay for being a flower.
