theSe Streets of Dublin of PariS

Here, in these streets, Dublin, Paris, where their footsteps clattered, the bells ringing, the sweeping suite of the Liffey, the Seine, and the bakeries close then open, and today Deleuze died, flung himself, over the last dharma, the breathing machine halted, in midbreath, the mind machine clicked off to the On switch, marvelling at its mechanism for deterritorialization and recrimination but the words of pavements are not that of war, not song, not war, and in the streets of Dublin, the pubs their lights glow in this dark, I am wending of a day across the back and street of bloody history, its body suggestive always of death and its hep burning cross its leftward and rightward swings, no joke to them that pays the price, or One who lost the run of himself, Or many that lost the run of themselves... some night where prayer has stalked, indeed dear Daddy Deleuze, and Daddy Joyce and Daddy Villon and Mama Anna Livia Plurabella in the bella of the morning of the not power is the song and the chiming of their oats and the ray of this belong and the chapel of their hill and the bells of Montmartre and the hill of praise and the matter of ruin, and the lips of preach, and the , the moment of cafe in the middle of the heave, the heaven sentward glance



and Brother Beckett and sideways glance Villon and little brother Robert and his madcap zanies and my death by these Paris buses not many in their between few




at four of the morning a hansom rattles
her soft feet of the lady
furs clad in her harms
the bouncing cheeks of her flesh
the light lie of payment waiting
the light lie weaning and there is no way to find him
there is no god
you are god when` re good you`re god when you`re bad
and then
there`s that light they keep talking about




the unvineyarded self
sips the wine the sober wine of the god`s bloody self
reaching reaching the passport the passport the yard
the passport of the yard




In Dublin by the bride`s bridge
in Paris on the quay





an old storm passed me by
in the reckoning of death
and our doctor



Shaman of our health
heard my name for
the hungering of its praise





saying you too have got to come with us we`re walking across the worry the sky









the last woman`s glance passes me by



there are storms in the pillows