160

That Malaga man Picasso

loved to paint up a storm.

Useful with sound-bite

as well as pencil,

Pablo said of his vocation:

Art is a lie
that tells the truth.

All I would add
to that
is this:

Every lie is not an artwork.

The Caf with the view

of graveyard and garden.

Tree and tomb together.

A child plays

close to ghosts

in the undergrowth.

A squeaking pram-wheel

offers the sound of its imperfect motion

to old bones,

worn head-stones

and fading family inscriptions.

An orange Frisbee delights the dog

who later lifts

her leg to history.

The children face each across tables,

rapid speech flying food into faces

that squeal but don't restrain

the recitation of favourite things

seen that day:

Scary mummy

Funny turtle

Living Sea

Japanese crab

Dino bones

Lovely Peter the Polar Bear.

And still with the prospect of the shop
at the entrance/exit,

and the purchase of a precious stone

that turns

on the journey home

into a memory -pebble, that is

stood on and talked over

weeks later

amidst the chaos

of a toy-choked bedroom.

160

His box is worse than his bite

caused no end of back pain
getting it onto the removal van
to be whisked from the bowels
of the Ulster Museum
to his temporary resting place.

This boxed beast

recalls to mind the cheetah curled up
in her shrunken kingdom at Belfast Zoo.

You couldn't call it a dog run.

A dog couldn't
run far
let alone fast
without hitting
the fence of its world.

And for the fastest living creature on earth

Reduced to a panting
lank of spots,
glued to the grass as if grounded
by extra gravitational force:

zoo gravity.

Bubble-wrap keeps the other drums from being hit.

For some,
the history of drumming in Ireland
has the sound of controversy.

The one drum still free from wraps
bears on its skin the name

IRISH UNEMPLOYED ACCORDIAN BAND

formed I imagine by
out-of-work men

looking for pride in the form of a tune
played outdoors to a martial beat,

rousing onlookers
to shake their heads
in time with the beat of hard times.

Bolstered in his cause
by
several pints of encouragement and a double dare,
the smirking history-maker carried his clanking
back-pack of revolution:
a can of red spray paint
banging against the hard case of his fake
designer sunglasses.

A 2am moonless night
was the scene of the rhyme against hate crime.

He had to act with speed as
Stranmillis still tapped and skipped with passing foot-traffic.

He mouthed each letter as he sprayed,
pausing half-way
to curse the paint speckling his right hand
like some rampant-red high-risk rash.
He liked this new red hand of Ulster,
but wasn't sure
his mum would smile
if paint had stained his sleeve.

He finished with an exclamation mark.

That'll show them.

STOP RACIST ATTACKS NOW

he wrote

on the hoarding surrounding
the Ulster Museum.

And every racist going past
is punched repentant reading the words
painted red on the builders hoarding.

Right the world by writing large in red.

Not that I'm an expert,
but the artificial
leg in the corner
looks like
World War One era.

The war where shell-shock
had not been invented.

The war of two feelings: cowardice or courage.

Amplified courage,
if witnessed,
at times led to a medal on the chest.
An aid to remembering
the smell of excrement, puking heroes
and burning horse flesh.

Runaway cowardice,
If observed,
at times led
to a lonely pole in a torn-up field,
and the comfort of alcohol
a priest and a blindfold.

And in the trench of fear,
sometimes the feelings muddied. Cowardice
contorting courage.
Dull obedience outweighing
the cauldron of emotion.

And the soldier who
returned with less,
leans on his wooden leg
and longs to dream
of kicking the winner
for his local football team.
But his mind trips each sweaty night
as he wakes in a bed of wrestled sheets,

recalling his fall as the shell reduced him.

JN = Jesus Nose,

which is a wink away
from saying
Jesus Knows
for those in the know.

Iris says she knows
Jesus,

who said Love
Your neighbour:
Straight
Crooked
Chinese
Catholic
Sad
Gay
Saint

Iris reads and is taught
that God thinks
homosexuals are
an ABOMINATION

which is a five syllable word
written over 3000
years ago.

The same ancient text
also boldly states that
GOD HATES SHRIMP,

that they also are
an ABOMINATION.

I don't know
if Iris eats shrimp.

I'm personally not a fan,
but for reasons of taste
rather than morality.

He used to stand in his armour,
waiting in the corridor
off the back stairs
that were probably the front stairs
when the old part of the building
stood alone, proud and modern.

Visitors accidentally found him,
small and unimposing,
like a school lollypop man without
his stick of authority.

The ancient Japanese warrior had a term:

Tsuji-giri

pronounced with a silent T

meaning

TO TRY OUT A NEW SWORD
ON A PASSER-BY.

Watch your step. Look out
for the new blades.

In an attempt to gauge the power of its' advertising,
the Company set out its stall to call
a role of sellotape a squirrel.
Sticky, practical, easy to use, this old faithful was being re-branded.

Sellotape is the new squirrel
said the Ad.

And like many Ads,
many people liked the tune and flashing lights,
but didn't get the point.

But,

It soon became
the chant of the playground,
the chatter over coffee,
the buzz at break,
the drool at the nursing home

Sellotape is the new squirrel
they said,
then laughed.

Posters were made
blogs written
t-shirts produced and sold, worn with pride,
a new tribe
created.

My favourite image was the logo of the hip website
dedicated to this phenomenon.

It featured a roll of sellotape, unrolled by four inches,
hanging from a little metal swing
inside a bird-cage.

Today i'm hearing

Hope is the new despair.

The contents of a dress-makers' shop specializing
in clothes for giants have
fallen and stuck to the hoardings:

high-heeled shoes ready for elevated joy

scissors open and sharp for business

corsets waiting to be worn and strung

parasols hoping for sunny strolls

two transparent floppy hats
floating like fashionable jellyfish
striving to get ahead and

dresses

in

purple

red

blue

green

and

gold

In the distance,

behind the bowing trees,

on the concrete balcony:-
2 small to the eye builders in bright bibs,

and a glimpse of orange
- a tall gas cylinder.

Likely not helium, which on several non-party occasions
I used said gas to fill balloons
in order to make
a floating point.

And the temptation to inhale was not
resisted.

I failed, inhaled
the helium gas

that gently stretched my manly tones
into a comedy squeak,

a high-pitched Disney chipmunk voice.

DON'T TRY THIS AT HOME, KIDS.

Pink blooming Rhododendrons
splashing colour
close to the black railing
that spikes along
Stranmillis Road,

ending at the closed museum

where builders break,
brick, build.

Beauty so close to rubble.

Rubble so close to beauty.

Who could ignore

a reversing red lorry

boldly led out into

beeping hot traffic

by an arm-waving builder

in a blue boiler suit

and a safe and healthy

white hard hat.

There are rules I feel
that I'm breaking right now
as I stare for longer than a minute
at this dead bird
with no head.
I came across it
outside the back entrance of the museum.

If this was stuffed, mounted and placed in a gallery,
I would be allowed to look
for as long as the gallery stayed open.
I would not be viewed as suspect,
but rather as an art lover,
bird lover or
bird mourner with a love for art.

But here, on the path,
as two park attendants slouch by with shovels,
I feel perverse, like I've crossed a line of propriety,
that not only should I stop looking,
but I should put my camera away,
focus on something healthy,

perhaps snap a live bird
beaking the grass in a search of worms.