Hell Puppets

All the traditional civilities.  And civil liberties.  Dead.  Dead.  Sorry.  Nah.  Might well have a cup of tea.  Guns away.  For now.  Stare at the TV.  Can’t believe RTÉ.  Cut my interview.  Bastards.  Maybe for the best.  Keep watching.  Europe uh.  Turn it off.  One of the books?  Treasure Island again.  Pieces of Eight.  Aye.  A good one.  Nah.  Just sit.  Stare out the window.  Fix something.  Paddock gate could do with another look.  What to do?  Forever nothing it seems.  Nothing more to say.  Can’t have bones with the senator.  Too many bones.  Not my own.   Ireland’s own.  On his own.  Forever.  Sure.  What about the ladies in the cabinet?  A pull?  Sorry.  Nah.  Cup of tea.  Yeah.  That kettle.  What a sound.  Been here since the Oul Days.  With the Oul Lass.  That sound of the water heating and the kettle stopping was all her.  Might be the only thing left that reminds me of the pair of them.  Nothing else.  Left.  Well and the books.  Oh and the guns.  And the spoons yes.  And I suppose a few plates too.  And the floors.  When they’re swept.   Need to sweep.  Forever.  Can’t let the place get like the senator’s.  Ever.  What a sty.  Sorry.  Nah.  But that’s the future.  All the traditional civiliberties for the heap.  At this rate we’ll have none left.  No bones.  That patch out there says otherwise.  It is an ill land it is.  That’s why we have these things.  These things we can’t know.  The Indians bin better.  That’s a theory.  They’ve been burning their balls from kick-off.  Our bins are crammed and stinking.  It is hard knowing nothing ever dies.  Just sticks and stinks.  Going bad under the earth pepper.  Gone meat.  Done skulls.  No wonder we’re all miserable up on the turf.  Knowing not what for.  But knowing it’s all the weather’s fault.  What is this weather in the head now?  Seamus Miller’s gobbing.  It’s coming out my ears.  Need to shave these ears.  Looking like the Oul Lad now.  The whole history of forecasters is in here throwing big gales all of them.  The mindstuff under attack.  Leave off . . .  . . .  Here now to myself a few notes on guilt.  It’s a pile.  That it is.  And we lump it.  Hell puppets as we are.  Depraved as we go.  Why bother when the stink is all over you from first whistle.  There’s no getting rid.  No sense in spraying yourself with a bottle.  Sorry sorry.  Nah.  Sorry sorry.  Keep spraying.  Keep pouring.  Come Europe.  Meet your hell puppets.  We’ll teach you a thing or we won’t.  Teach you contrafictions.  We kept all your great books for years didn’t we?  Deciphered the vaguer ones.  Fattened the leaner ones.  Sorry.  Nah.  Now prepare for long halls of sinners on stools.  Tall stools.  Fat glasses.  Everyone late for confession.  And himself the absolver is there too hiding in the back.  Tugging his collar and sweating like a bollocks.  Ah well.  I couldn’t do it before but in time’s passing maybe.  I might put a call in.  Say right God I hear you have a few skeletons rattling.  Well one of them’s a close relative of mine you should know of course you do.  Tell him if I don’t see him I know I went a bit too far.  Though I’ll probably see him and tell him myself.  Will I see him?  Now I’ve less faith in committal to the lower levels.  But is it likely anyone will be around to kindly incinerate me?  For the bins maybe we’ll see but nothing else comes to mind now.  So a cup of tea.  And nothing.  Nothing for an hour.  And a day.  The sweet nothing and knowing.  Knowing what nothing lasts for.  Ever and ever.  Sorry.  Sorry.  Na . . .  So . . .