Since The Matapan - our local pub -
was taken over by Keith & Di & re-
named BECON TREE (about the
same time Pavel was born) we've
been made welcome with the pram.
The Sunday before May Day Bank
Holiday is always the poltergeist
doppelganger of the morrow,
we wheel into the bar & are greeted
by a man we've not seen before
collecting glasses. He cuts the shape
of the tattooed offender & is nice
to us. It turns out that Keith's had
a heartattack & is resting upstairs,
so this guy - a local drinker called
Mick - has stepped in to help out.
That's a lovely accent he says to
Sarah & asks is it Welsh? But Sarah
has been talking of Ireland all morn
her lilly-green dress an outcrop
of the
thought process. Mick guides
us to
a table with a chessboard top.
comes the tester : he points to
& asks : what's is name then?
puts his palm to his ear for us to
Sarah says : rhymes with travel.
'ell he says, warm & in fun, he's
get some stick in school for that!
fuckin Pavin Stone. But he's
with him, says he's gorgeous.
blue eyes he says : where
did he find
em? Sarah says from his
Dad but he's
not having any of it. He
carries on
collecting glasses seren
ading each table
with 'Now now boys
& girls, now now boys
& girls'. I settle
in on the guinness & Sarah
its opposite -
rose wine. Later, at the bar,
Keith has
come downstairs looking like
anaemic Frankenstein & Mick is trying
to wrestle open a bottle of wine -
a beer drinker - tugging
at the cork like
a foetus in a flute.
The whole pub
is steaming now with
people having a good
time, shifting
its rafters against the absence
work. A balmy breeze drifts over the
from outside - May blossom &
spilt Stella -
as Mick reaches in to
pinch Pavel's cheek.
A lifesize tattooed
swallow floats towards
blue eyes -
bracelets & rings splashing
a collop of gold sun


Since S and M took over the local
public house and renamed the Socialist

the Monarchist, when 'arry Slotter welcomed
us with the May Sunday paramedics
wheeling our working class heart
out the door from a public bar
& was greeted by men not seen before.

Doppelgangers attacking, collecting
Passes to the throne room poltergeists’
Office, nicely dark, unknown offensive
And shaping the voice turning us at rest
upstairs, hard of hearing their highnesses:.

"So, a local drinker called
M stepped in to assist, the new socialist

That's a common accent we say
as if an island in mourning the gorgeous

royal sensitive Monarchy, blue eyed dress
outcrop in poetic process guiding political

thought-chess, the top table game of voice
accent coming to test the rest of our class
slotting off for the Monarchy, us s/he asks:

"What's in a name then?"

Sir and Marm fleet before our eyes, tunes
ears and hearts to feel guilt, commands:

"Fuckin 'ell" a lot, and "drop dead for us.."

But fuck the school a smitten socilist worker
warm marm booty servant gets travelling
the rhyming life, the fun in class,
s/he's gonna stiff us for a stone shilling anyway.

But s/he's with us to the very last at least,
blue eyed M, removing a bottle top
a beer drinker tugging the forelock
who s/he called Sir and says

"Where did s/he find em?"


S and M drift in downstairs
rafters supporting an absence
no republican glass of state

"Now now boys & girls bend for Sir
Mm, are you commonly placed
conversations with the taosaich
opposite at the bar in Cork, disgrace
like the bhouys now here, now not"

and now

"..boys & girls.." set into the socialist guinness
Sarah and the rose-red wine, blossoms 'ere for us, ungrateful
servers looking out for the Monarchy’s public as one monarch’s Frankenstein
class warring in the flue for honours.

The whole pub is unlisted, common
people barred from the Monarchy
moving in the breeze, all the barred
socialsts love a monarchy, Stella’s
Class splashing in gold, reaching Mick’s
Magic lifesize tattooed accent, eying
the float of cash, powder and liquid
rings and bracelets binding us plashing
into mirrored reflections, above a sun

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