Freedom of the City
Tram rattle. Mid-day. Tourists.
Thin man with wire frame glasses,
artisan tote bag, ultra-thin laptop.
In February six cars were highjacked
at gunpoint in Belfast
and driven to the Republic.
Cum on feel the noize.
Tom is quite red but you can tap into his green side.
Yeah, yeah I have them. Cough.
Jamais? Ici? Jemmy, easy.
Girls grab the boys.
She’s different in the afternoon than
what she was in the morning.
Ere? Not at all. Bell.
Next stop James’, ospidale san shaymass.
Sigh. Let’s get wild, wild, wild.
Ach, boof. Theatre is entirely appropriate.
Silhouette, non? Nothing is a work of revelation.
Turn, tram screech. Wild, wild, wild.
Warm sun on skin. I think cos she said.
Graffiti, anti-climb spike wheels.
So you think I’ve got an evil mind.
But the truth was he had become an informant.
I’ll tell you honey, that I don’t know why.
Young woman with headphones, wry expression,
to herself.
No problem, no problem, anytime.
Rialto.
I don’t know why.
Door beep. Frame shudder.
All the way down the carriage.
Taste of stale tea. Sun strobes through the trees.
But it felt deeply jarring in London.
So you think my singing is out of time.
Give of skin against phone glass.
Canal dried to a stream, bright litter
against the brown grey mud.
The MRF had a name for
this secret coterie of traitors.
Siren. Clatter of scooter, metal, heavy.
Do you see the blue?
Cum on feel the noize.
On clickin gorrum. An Cloigin Gorm.
Cabins, Ireland. Plastic bag rustle.
Each was carefully fitted
with a mammoth incendiary device.
Red cow. An bhó darg. Arn bo drareg.
So you think I got a funny face.
Kingswood. Keel Ann ree. Coill an Rí.
At the end of the line
Emerge into watery sunlight
through the bare trees. Like.
Tic tic of caliper, scrape of boot. Bus stop.
I don’t know why. And I don’t know why.
Cigarette smoke. She flew from Dublin under an assumed name.
Stink of smoke. Feeling of a pattern coming.
Man takes off his hat, rubs his hair. Iron railings shiver.
Drone of a plane hidden by light blue clouds.
Before sunset, Price assembled everyone in the portico of the National Gallery.
Schoolchildren get on the bus
65 Baile Coimin. Seska a coo-ig balya quinine.
So the young terrorists went sightseeing.
Gum shapes in the pavement, fat stars.
Oh I gotta sing with some disgrace.
The man with deep set eyes has a torn coat
Have you a ciggie? I’ve only the one.
Price, who was more high minded, went to the theatre.
Suddenly it’s all wheelchairs and buggies,
bus grumble as ramp lowers.
I ain’t in no hurry.
The Freedom of the City by Brian Friel.
The interior of the Corsair reeked of explosives
Bus lurches up the hill away from Dublin.
And I don’t know why.
Peering through the windows the officers spotted
a thin white cord snaking
from the front seat to the back.
Fields wide on each side, brown dust on the hedges.
St Brigid’s Home.
And I don’t know why, anymore.
Fields are pure green.
Oh, oh no.
CLOSE ENGLAND, lock down all the exit points.
Kilteel road. A donkey sitting.
Bell. Electronic sign for local election.
Door hiss. Slap of wind. Feet on the ground
again. Cum on feel the noize.
Birdsong, chittering. Smell of manure.
It was as if people couldn’t imagine it was happening.
Sheep. Hills. A young man peels away
into one of the houses off Red Lane.
Girls grab the boys.
Watery eyes. Cropped hedges.
Neurophen packet on the ground.
We get wild, wild, wild.
A house called Hillsborough. Tractor
carrying a black plastic-wrapped bail.
Evergreen leaf clippings in the road.
Wild, wild, wild.
Question any Irish people looking to leave.
Cottage. Virgin Mary in the window,
looking out, hands wide, white and light blue.
Cum on feel the noize
Girls grab your boys
We get wild, wild, wild
Wild, wild,
