The Crisp factory Ride
There they were beneath me floating on by,
their white patterned images reflecting the
creative design of nature’s greatest art.
Above me the fellow members of my tribe,
their breath exhaling the whoosh of the warrior
chariots sweeping rise and descent into joy.
Within their blood Cu Cuchulain’s people shared the
joint heritage of the DNA gift of an African Jane who’s
tribe ventured beyond the Pale of their jungle home.
A crescendo of human vocal exhalations reached out
to the spirit of the man from Tir na nog whose sliothar’s
path if true, would have sliced a straight tunnel to Irelands
freedom from the wrath of the modern Hun and the
ancient beguiling weakness of an island’s lack of esteem
in what it was and who it’s people could transform to be.
The knowledge of garments, whose time had arrived to
overcome the grime of life’s passions and reach into the
bubbled waters of a washing machine cycle, grasped me
by the inner male reproductive organs and imparted upon
my now delicate stomach the rotating screams of dizzy
stumbling steps and mumbled whispers of irate brain cells.
Before one leg went west and the other went north at the same
time, I hung inside out and upside down and opened my eyes
and unlocked my mind and felt the purest of enlightenment
sweep me away to the lake where the swans of Ireland’s myths
Floated freely upon tranquil waters.
And the one with the auburn hair and the wit in her eyes
Grasped one hand in hers while the one with the smile
In his soul and the humour on his lips held the other
And I looked at the one I made the vow to and
© frank McGivney 29.08.15 after tayto park