warm-left-handed greetings to the Celtic Nations - Symphonic prose poem

[tectak]

Overture




(A minor Blues danced and sung by uisge beatha* sweet to me in order to adress
the Celtic nations formally-infamously drunk)


“Or set upon a golden bough to sing
To lords and ladies of Byzantium
Of what is past, or passing, or to come: (William Butler Yeats)


“or the chosen virgin. Laid in her snow. On the altar of London. Was the first to die. (Dylan Thomas)




I couldn't make it to Baile Átha Cliath in time

because I was delayed in
Béal Feirste
for the most of my better not to be wasted time
and this was going on and this was
how and why:

among those gunned down without bloody holy mary mercy in a disaster (or let me rephrase by way of quotingvoting for Gadda': Quer pasticciaccio brutto de via Merulana)

that already Dylan Thomas had first observed and
then covered and then recorded and reported, what is oh so typically Belfast …

among those killed in the dusk raid
was a sweet sixteen all in vain because she is – state the fact – dead now and and ever so pointlessly and in the same vein it is pretty hard to stand they do that all the time,

just out of the wicked blue
a short-range projectile
cut her heart in two
in the very same
moment her's and my
tongues played to each other


a bit of hank chinaski
comes it too
love poems I write for exclusively she
says so: she says after reading me for wet and hot:

scusi baby, but I just died and would you mind to notice ---

--------------------------
*uisge beatha "whisky"<--water of life

informed by:
http://it.wikipedia.org/wiki/Quer_pastic...a_Merulana
http://youtu.be/RDy3sy3tffE (among those killed in the dawn raid as a man aged a hundred) <--- I hope that was pretty obvious )that I am referring to this poem

" Or the chosen virgin. Laid in her snow. On the altar of London,. Was the first to die.  (from Ceremony after a fire raid, a poem by Dylan Thomas)

Hi Serge,
Still churning out your stuff, I see. I lived and worked in Befast and Dubh
Linn and can confirm you are a token Irishman. The poem? I have no idea. James Joyce eats Dylan Thomas and vomits uncontrollably, perhaps, as Brendan often did. Its all Irish to me and I love the place and the people.
Have you got a fuck-buddy yet? No, thought not. Go get a shag and then write something beautiful which doesn't end up in a fuck-fest or a serial self-abuse session, there's a good fellow.
Best (I am back)
tectak ( forced rhyme with "I'm" avoided)