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DAVE LORDAN

 

 

 

Dave Lordan

Dave Lordan was born in Derby, England, in 1975, and grew up in Clonakilty in West Cork. In 2004 he was awarded an Arts Council bursary and in 2005 he won the Patrick Kavanagh Award for Poetry. His collections are The Boy in the Ring (Cliffs of Moher, Salmon Poetry, 2007), which won the Strong Award for best first collection by an Irish writer and was shortlisted for the Irish Times poetry prize; and Invitation to a Sacrifice (Salmon Poetry, 2010). Eigse Riada theatre company produced his first play, Jo Bangles, at the Mill Theatre, Dundrum in 2010. He has lived in Holland, Greece and Italy, and now resides in Greystones, Co Wicklow.

 

 

 

At Slane McGlowan's Funeral

 

 

 

The waves just kept getting bigger at Slan Mclown’s Funeral.


The first wave mealy treacled down the slopping hogstreet toweird us, harly damning our shoes. Dayed ben heavy shovers earlier, sweat code well have been overflot from a dram up a head. Only proles wiv holes in dey soles peed any mind to it, noting how draught-cold and aily the feeling was, like the Divil in Bray on Cursemass mornings.

 

I’ve god funeral shoes and I’m hypervegilant. I not things watch are mooned to be unnotable. The most famous hiphippervigilant in all hazetory is not ably the Princess and the Pit!

 

Its aslo part of my jib as an ol-gourd participint in Sane Mugoink’s Funeral tee cess out the wearing signs in the taigiest of irregulars. I fessed right away what this parent trickle down signaled: the onpounding loansh of another dinmented sayaught on Signon McGown’s Funeral.

 

Mose smirked poppers I know beeleaf in der herd of hurts that nuttin means nuttin no moare, ift ever dad. I agrey, aldo hipper vigil ants torch me the opposite is oslo true, that everything means everything: any rum thing in the world can stoned for anything else that there is.

 

So the waves, bay they mateyowers, rioters, pogromites, sperms, berserkers, wild Camarre horses, jellytots, or battalions of matchstick men on flah agarics, keep cummin, and keep growin, keepsteamrollering towards us with evermore hate, ever more sniff, ever more powers, ever more mayness.

 

In me youth, to the slurpy eyes of Neily Evrycon (though not may), fires had broken out everywhere at once all over the would. It was a time of ruptune and of illambination. Win weeks, multiplesimultaneouscrises stampeded the geriatric, paralyzed, amnesiac order of bastards out of existence. I, alung with the whale of my kind, lost Fear of Police, which was asslow me fear o debt, which was also me pharaoh might in morphoses, which was also me blandness and eggnorance and animal programming.

 

So we weir not, we could not be, outdung by the waves, which we knew, at de last, would alslow be deafated, if not be oss, then by suckseeding goonerations who would, if only baycose it was being penally disalooed, continue the snuggle for Shooin-Me-Goo-in's funeral. Saucing this gave us all the stool that we kneeded: every time a wave broke across us we braced, we took the hit, we absorbed the soaking, we rechopped the lines against the key ops of the scuttering, we closed our ears and our hearts to the clamour and the screeching.

 

Then, wave in retreat, panic held off, we pucked ourselves up and, basting each other’s morale with whoops and shrill whistles and spartang cries of eternal deafiance, we carride on wet Shush McGrovel’s funeral.

 

At farts we were enthusiastically hailed for our steadfastness by the many onlookers who had, as useogle, lined the highstrip to witness, intone an applaud, and (in their own sadmassive way) prataisandpeat in, John M Gone’s funeral.

 

Hoover, as the waves kept caning, copped on increasing their threat, the sidelinekakkaphony of adooradation became a sidelinekakkaphony of pale neck instead. Al flied, levving us alone to face without encouragement the incessaintly oncommin waves.

 

The steeply slopping high-street is loned with towers of silence, from which no sound ever emarriages. A mill in gaping windows silent with platinumb blindness.

 

The ninth storie was five waves tall and it sledgevankeshed our already half-hammered pro session, a-felling us like skittlemen and tossing us around like laves in a ghost. We clung to lumps and boxers and to each other’s tailcoats, with all our mate. Still, moist of us droned, septic me, and two nobbermen, who had paid Kahuna money to Shun to babel to thick port in his funeral: A DRUNK WET SHINER MAGROAN.

 

Looking up the nibblemen, I thought about the old mahoan buck in the Shebeen, dwun at the bear counter that was crouched as if hodless, and shootin his moot oot true the back of his trenchcoot. I knew tha he claimed to have once been King of the Revellers. I knew because he shited it whenever he was drunk and courageoust enough that he believed that Signer wood never alloy the funeral, and in fucked dat twas hay was sending the waves al alung. Y shir wuddenee? Innti maken a friggin forked tune oot of his neighbour-ending funeral?

 

Dis tinction does not a quorum make, sow, yet agoon, I was O’ blagued to cull a halt to Shovelin Mic Go Wan Ourra dat witcha’s funeral. Yet agang I would have to go back defleated to face Shame in the 40th floor ex car park shebeen, far above any pissible waves (though, obliviously, now that we had Bandoned Sham McGoon's funeral, the waves would stop cummin anyhowl).

 

I world heave to face Slowinmagoin and hem ravin and hexin and sputin like he just lust all fours beautiful doctors in a storm.

 

I world heave to cane up with a new slop of weareds to try to explain my ongoin foolure to bury him. Yawn, yawn, crystal, yawn.

 

©2012 Dave Lordan

 

 

Author Links

 

Dave Lordan home page

Lordan page at Salmon Publishing

Article on and poems by Lordan at Poetry International Web

Articles by Dave Lordan in Irish Left Review

 

 

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