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Francis Curran

Two Poems

A Day On Site


I use to be a painter; and toshing-
Out the insides of a building site.
This spark, still off the head
From speed spooned into tea,
Pumps the body to a techno beat.

This git’s too keen with the chisel,
Chases out a finished wall.
Flashing the wallet, passing round
A naked lover; peroxide crop and
Red high heels; on all fours.
Lithe and teasing, on the hug of a shag-
Pile floor; the curled pierced tongue,
Simulating, a licking out.

The plumber, has her at his crotch,
Calls the spark a jammy bastard
Who now, not keen on sharing, snatches-
Pops her back in the pocket.
Throws us with the sudden switch,
A run down on a pet constrictor,
Its feeding of a live pink rat.

He says, a snake can swallow
A fully-grown cow; the mutual howl
Of bollocks!-snorts, it says so
In the guinness book of records,
Rests his case on that.
The chippy, in the power sawing,
Spewing up of hot wood shavings,
Sticking to the glass white skirting,
Retorts of a cow,
With a kink for snake skin.

The patience snaps on these intruders,
For the buggering of my work.
Oh jesus christ! mad for the dust,
Dublin dave slopes in,
The broom, the pan the dustbin.
He speaks without an open mouth,
Knows he’ll leave this flat,
Us looking up, faces scrunched, begging
What the hell was he on about?
But, he’s brought his stash tin.
Takes a clump of potent skunk, that reeks
Above the air and fumes,
Asks his way to a skin.

For dublin’s sake in skinning up,
The bang-lock ruin of a fresh gloss door.
Bangs on about god knows what.
The steering onto football; man utd,
Sets him off on one again.
But at least the field is narrowed.
I made sod all that day.


The devil, if he had his way…

The devil, if he had his way…

On monday he would have your wife

On tuesday, persuade us of our savings

On wednesday, rain bottles on another faith’s head

Thursday, set his stall of fine skunk weed outside

The pupils point of exit, fleeing local comprehensive

Out doing the ice cream van

On friday, penetrate with undue consent

On saturday, train the sight on a beating heart

On sunday, set off doomsday; unlock digit

Man machine to key the code to drop the bomb

That flips man back to dark and stone, and yet

I bet the devil loves his mum

return to SHAMPOO 25