Dublin: a rite of passage

Before I was soiled: I was

oiled unhappy;

toiling and boiling like

cauldron of darkly wizard-

like pose;

a fingerpinch of spite,

of masculine passivity,

of man who never was become.

 

 

Now is another matter:

now he is become:

now he runs like training-

man; now the game no longer judd-

er[r]s, shakes or shudd-

er[r]s out of mind, or sight of flailing

in-

com-

pet-

i-

sham.

 

 

And of all the sites and scenes delivered,

like rapt-

tured box of heavenly gifting,

the rite of pass-

age which most delivers me

is the right of

so

passing close

you do

give me.

The laughter and tears;

the fears and the hurts;

the love freely expressed:

the goddamn life you contain and inscribe

and so simply

define, with your brain and your being and your

goddamn beautiful face;

your his-

and your her-

and them-

stories bloody out there you unfold and retell and

spin ingeniously around me and my soul and my

being and my hell;

still untold, still unfollowed, still unknown by

most out there.

Dublin: I love you, more

than you

know.

Dublin: I love you, because you and your people

weirdly know how

to make me this [s]well: [s]weller

than [s]weller ever was.

 

 

And whilst time is still ours, the future is still

built – upon pasts that are passed;

upon guilts that begin slowly to wash away in

[time-

{s]-

hhh} I say, as

I discover the suddenly that the man

I become is more than the son of his father.

 

 

And pictures and faces and sounds and dis-

graces; sexual wroughts that pilfer

my thoughts and make me

happy again; as

happy as free man and

woman can be.

 

 

And the days and nights I pass

in remembrance of Dublin

past, and future maybe perfect too,

remind me all the time of you.

And a life recovered

is a life remade;

retaken as warriors burrowing violent

under-

growing and gnawing and

hurting and sad,

and ultimately the [bad-

d-

es

{t]-

i-

me} of all

is what has recalled me away from

the life I could

live.

 

 

And maybe it’ll work, and maybe it won’t,

and maybe it’ll break us;

but if we don’t try and see, and check in and check

out,

we always shall rue the night-

and day-

t-

i-

me-

s

we refused to

pursue the

one life we’d lead

and even enjoy:

good Lordy, oh my …

 

🙂

 

… that really such a sin?

To hope for such win?

 

 

So I begin where

I start: before and after a-

part of so many experiences,

imagined and real; the soul

and the heart I have refound in

Dublin.

And then what is real if not in the hug

of your embrace?

 

For a future

begins to replace the before and

after which started so hurt,

and now begins rightly to

away fade to

black …

… not the black of all bad, nor the

black of all pain; just the

black of all colours: the

rainbow of

sane.

 

3 thoughts on “Dublin: a rite of passage

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