The Dubliner

 
I spent most of the day cheerfully
celebrating contributor

copies of a college mag I’d not
been published by before

unexpectedly landing on my ageing
coir doormat in the suburbs

of Sydney at exactly eleven-fifty
on a frigid winter’s morning.

Instantly transforming the cold,
despondent grey sky to

brilliant, imperturbable balmy gold.
Welcomely triggering a

satisfying afternoon of strong
flowing whiskey, and

endless, reckless cheer. Listening
to Glen Hansard and Lisa

O’Neill perform “Fairytale of New
York” at Shane MacGowan’s

funeral, for the five-thousandth and
fifty-seventh time on YouTube.

Glen’s rough, perfect voice, smooth
as polished diamonds floating

weightlessly in a tall smoky glass.
Strumming his beat-up,

beautiful guitar, like galloping stallions,
delicious inches from their

greatest ever victory. Singing along
shamelessly in my blurry

lounge room with the Dublin master.
Making certain plans to

see him if he ever ventured back
to Oz again (as I had seen

Lisa O’Neill with The Pogues
three months before at the

Sydney Opera House.) Absolutely
floored by the awful,

unbelievable news of his tragic
passing just hours earlier,

at only fifty-six. Expectedly shedding
a thick, hopeless tear,

following a sombre lengthy pause;
before pouring the fullest,

most affective glass of the whole
loose session. Glen Hansard’s

unmistakable acoustic guitar suddenly
strumming. The entire room

gorgeously aflame. Affectionately
toasting the inimitable spirits

of Glen, Shane, Dolores, and Sinead,
at the liveliest dive-bar in all of

Heaven. Where the whiskey is always
strong: and the songs never end.

*

Pictures on the Sea

 
I hadn’t been with a woman for over a
year. My cousin’s wife Christy told me

about a single friend of hers she thought
might be a good match. She met me at the

train station a few minutes from her
home. Poured two overflowing glasses

of whiskey when we got there. Turned
on loud rock music. A few drinks later

she lit a joint, took a long hit, handed it
to me. Living on the lower level of a two

storey house supported by tall thin
metal stilts a few streets from the

ocean. Making as much noise as
possible to annoy the old gay couple

above her that complained about
everything she did. The music got

louder. We kissed passionately. Slowly
sliding my burning fingertips up her

damp quivering thighs. “Not yet. We
have to go to McDonald’s for Christy. I

promised I would take her an apple pie.”
When we arrived at my cousin’s home

Christy was crying. My cousin stole all
her babysitting pay before he left for

work. We finished the second joint after
sex, watching the lights from the fishing

boats tracing beautiful pictures on the
sea. The first time in over a year I

stopped thinking about my father. His
lifeless body at the funeral. That

couldn’t hear a word I wanted to say.

***

(Featured image from Pexels)