А few poems by Owen Gallagher, Ireland

 

Before I make my Ascension to Heaven

 

I want to be rigged up in a Harley Davidson wheelchair

and cared for by a Miss World Nurse, steered

to Big Sadie’s to have my body tattooed with I LOVE MUM.

 

Using stimulants, artificial devices and the support

of my carer, I’ll bring bliss to female parts, draped in darkness.

My name will be enrolled in the Guinness Book of Records.

 

I want to be ushered into the Poetry Library,

where poems come dropping slow,

to sit with Neruda, Ritsos and Mayakovsky

 

and dream of the Nobel poet I could have been

had I not spent hours letting a librarian compose

erotic sonnets on my body with a quill.

 

Recharged, I will bungee-jump from Big Ben into the arms

of police. An international campaign of marches

and occupations will secure my release.

 

With a full TUC escort I’ll be driven in an open top car

to Hyde Park and awarded the Labour Medal of Honour

for exemplary resistance to the State.

 

When my heart no longer pounds I’ll be whisked

to the Organ Removal Unit where my parts

will be distributed to ailing poets.

 

I will make my ascension to Heaven, snuggle up to

Marilyn Monroe, and watch my state funeral below.

A day of world mourning will be declared.

 

Handkerchiefs will drop from the sky.

🍁🍁🍁🍁🍁

Fish R 4 U

(In  2011, the Catholic Bishops of England and Wales re-established the eating of fish on Fridays.)

 

Perhaps the saint responsible for penances

              won the toss with God: once again

              worshippers can queue outside

              Only Cod for the flesh of fish,

              eased down with salt ‘n’ vinegar

              and blessed at the family table with Ketchup.

 

I suspect the Bishops’ earthly advisers

              are unaware of increasingly fishless seas

              and have not hooked up with the fish gods

              in Brussels, captains in suits

              determined to restock our waters,

              who have prescribed laws like Moses,

              sunk more boats than Drake,

              and forced trawler-men to beach

              their boats on e-bay.

 

Perhaps a miracle will occur and parishioners

              will be able to queue on Fridays at church

              to receive a sliver of fish.

 

I offer these thoughts in the name of the Cod, the Plaice, and the Haddock.

 

🍁🍁🍁🍁🍁

 

Lavender

 

On those rare Saturdays father was at home

the whole house breathed of lavender

as if he’d just picked the purple flower domes

and crushed them into the canister

while on his knees in the hallway,

slabbing chunks of polish

on the linoleum, working his way

back, he’d buff till it shone like varnish

which was my cue to skate in socks,

across the hall, knowing we were in sync

and he’d catch me in the lock

of his arms, a silent clunk, click, and wink.