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An Cuairteoirí (the visitor) ... [R]


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Even the morning coffee seems reluctant,

disapproving, somewhat withholding its flavour:

God, you were so drunk last night!

What do you mean by stumbling home

at 3.27 am? Huh? Well? What? Speak up!

Could you keep it down, just shut up please?

My head, my poor liitle head is spinning.

 

We started at the German place, four guys

over from Bremen or wherever, ugly, hairy,

they never send handsome beautiful people across.

Somewhere in Germany, at central planning,

they call in the ugly fucks and say, right,

you lads will be going overseas – Japan!

 

We were doing grand through the first

three beers or so, and then Miko says,

so what about this fucker Hitler, yeah?

Off to rule the fuckin world, were yez?

Dead silence. Kill the fuckin Jews??? says Miko,

Brendan here is a fuckin Jew! Total liar.

 

Away on a roll. What can you do?

I try to look Jewish, not Israeli, them boys

be nasty. Don’t know what’s going on with

the Palestinians, why they can’t put up a better show.

Come over to Erin, boys, for some IRA training,

so could you shut the fuck up, Miko mo chara?

 

No, no chance, so there’s a bit of a fight,

a few teeth spattered on the cobblestones

and then they all fuck off, muttering in German,

limping, carrying the wounded, and Miko says,

lovely lads. Soft, though, not like the old SS,

apologies are eating out their brains.

 

We’ll go over to the “No Name: bar, says I,

so you can have a go at the Americans.

O God, I do be loving the Yanks, says Miko.

Stupidity, as you know, is one thing,

but pure stupidity is a thing to be cherished!

The unalloyed … the real … the real thing!

 

Sweeping aside occasional Japanese pedestrians

with a nudge and an elbow, into the path

of honking screeching oncoming cars, Miko asks

about metrics. We discuss Rafteiri. I grow hot

and raise my hand to strike him … and stop.

He gazes at me with guileless innocent eyes.

 

In a moment a thousand, two thousand years return

and I stare at him and see a warrior,

a brother, from a different time and age,

clear blue eyes from the ancient ... Y'allrai or wha'?

C'mere, them Jews were our lads, they were Irish,

so are we off to destroy the Yanks? Aye, surely.

Edited by dedalus

Drown your sorrows in drink, by all means, but the real sorrows can swim

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Even the morning coffee seems reluctant,

disapproving, somewhat withholding its flavour:

 

Excellent opening lines!

You have a great conversational tone that makes the reader think if the writer is actually at the scene.

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