The two authenticated skulls of Cromwell:
one explained as his childhood skull.
Twenty line-ups of The Drifters crooning
to OAPs in shabby, beachside hotels.
Two hundred thousand splinters of The True Cross.
You, Roddy, somewhere in the morning.
I think of him by the poolside
(No Heavy Petting. No Bombing),
godless, in those knitted trunks
with the other cats from Them
who are now circuit judges,
publicans, each one a cold fish.
There's a strong waft of Windowlene;
a mouthful of the first lamb Madras
in Belfast; the vestige of TB;
that particular Irish pigginess
that makes the soul whisper
Don't trust! Steer clear!
Multitudes of the middle aged
(my sad self among them)
lazily fucking in back rooms
with Moondance spinning while
Mars gurns in a midnight sky.
As the disc is flipped from Side One
to Two, a condom, half on, half off,
catches the street light, goosebumps
mirroring magnolia anaglypta.
Whenever I see a photo of him
I write beneath it: Morrison:
neighbours say he was a loner.
A Brief History of Contraception
a mouthful of bees...dark plugs and pessaries made from
crocodile dung or the bladders of goats...the swallowing
of sixteen tadpoles fried in quicksilver...spitting into
a frog's mouth after the act of love...a mash of
pomegranate, rock salt and alum...cabbage and onion juice...jumping
backwards nine times to shock and loose the seed...sheaths
fashioned by craftsmen from tortoiseshell and the offal
of various beasts of the field...the insertion of three
balls of pure gold...risky rhythm...cap, coil and curry
flavour condom...a glove puppet named Femidom...a douche
of diet Coke...ugliness